Hannah’s chest simultaneously constricted and expanded, tightening at the very centre as if a sharp nail was being hammered into it, pain swelling above her ribs as she held her breath. The opposite of slowing down was speeding up. Getting worse. What was Lenore saying?

  A hefty gulp of wine, the warmth of the liquid lining her throat, soothing the ache, and back to the page.

  I’ve decided to take a break from chemotherapy over the Christmas period to weigh up my options. The treatment has taken quite a toll on my body and I’m not sure I want to spend whatever time I have left vomiting and lying flat on my back.

  Christmas has always been my favourite time of year—I know it’s been different for you. And while I love the atmosphere here, it’s not all about the snow and the plum pudding. It’s about the people you spend it with and the joy their companionship brings. And to that end, Nancy and I are wondering if we could possibly visit and spend Christmas with you. As much as I love our home here in Ablington, the cold is wreaking havoc with my bones and I’m craving sunshine and beaches, and mornings spent debating the meaning of life (and death … sorry!) over strong coffee and a freshly baked lamington.

  I’m sorry to be telling you all this in a letter, darling Hannah, but I’ve been coming to grips with my mortality and thought I might get too emotional if we spoke over the phone. An email seemed too impersonal. I also wanted to give you time to consider my proposition without putting too much pressure on you, as I know how you feel at this time of the year. But perhaps you’re over that now?

  So, what do you think? Are you up for spending Christmas with a couple of ageing lesbians? I’m desperate to see your lovely place and check out this Yarrabee you’ve been raving about. We can have a good old Aussie barbecue and bring in the new year together.

  Give me a call or drop me a message on WhatsApp and let me know your thoughts.

  And don’t go worrying. Life is finite and we all have our time. Nancy and Carl send their love.

  As do I,

  Lenore. x

  Hot tears burned the back of Hannah’s eyes. Don’t go worrying? How was she supposed to not worry when Lenore had virtually said her days were numbered?

  She slammed her glass down on the coffee table, red liquid sloshing over the rim and onto the timber, and strode to the window, arms clamped around her middle. A sky full of stars greeted her, illuminated by a creamy full moon, the Milky Way clearly visible, billions of luminous lights, dust and dark matter pinwheeling through space. All held together by gravity.

  Was that where souls went after death? That’s what she’d been told when she was a kid, when her grandmother had one day just gone to sleep and never woken up again. A strong arm had wrapped around her shoulder as the first shining star appeared in the night sky. There she is, her mother whispered, watching over you. Keeping you safe. She’ll always be there; all you have to do is look up. A convenient story to tell a confused child, to make sense of something that seemed so unfathomable. And then she’d grown up and reality hit. Along with the truth—that there is no life after death. Her studies had made mincemeat of that possibility: if you couldn’t prove it, then it didn’t exist. And no one could prove categorically there was any such thing as an afterlife. Just like there was no such thing as a miracle.

  Lenore.

  Everything she hadn’t said in the letter appeared in Hannah’s brain as if it had been written in invisible ink and revealed by the heat of her concern: I don’t have long to live; I want to see you again; this will be my last Christmas.

  She swiped at the wetness on her cheek, turned towards the table where her map and notebook were still laid out beside her computer. Her plans for a solo bush Christmas were already mapped out, like pretty much every minute of her life. So there was no time to think. No time to remember. And so far the tactic had worked a treat. Her life was perfectly organised, perfectly under control. Even considering Lenore’s request made her heart race, made her want to sprout a set of wings and smash through the glass of the window and vanish into the darkness. A classic fight-flight response.

  Impossible.

  But could she really hang the tinsel and pull the crackers—something she hadn’t done for the last seventeen years of her life?

  Then again, how could she not give Lenore exactly what she wanted? How could she not grant a dying woman, a woman who was like family, one final wish?

  Turning her back on the starry night sky, Hannah pulled down the blind and retrieved her wine from the table. A crimson ring circled the aged wood, the first piece of furniture she’d bought when she’d arrived in Yarrabee. It would leave a stain but right now her care factor was zero.

  Downing the half-glass of shiraz in a few gulps, she picked up her phone, found Lenore’s number and let her finger hover over the call button. Her hand trembled. She was trained to deal with other people’s grief but managing her own was a different matter entirely. No problem, she’d just handle it as if she was talking to a client, making an appointment like she did every day of her working life. But this wasn’t any patient, this was Lenore, and she’d see through the bravado in five seconds flat. Maybe better to leave it until tomorrow, until the knife lodged in her gut disintegrated into needles with the thin veil of time. Even if it was only overnight.

  She switched her phone to silent, turned off the lights and pulled on her PJs without bothering with her normal skincare routine. All she wanted was to disappear between the pages of a romance novel, escape into a fictional world where she could pretend that happy endings really were possible.

  Chapter 2

  Just Blush was the ideal colour. Dark enough to provide definition but light enough to go with any of her work clothes. And it complemented her pale pink pantsuit perfectly. Lipstick applied, foundation covering the grey circles rimming her bloodshot eyes, Hannah angled her head in the mirror and ruffled the ends of her wavy bob. Her Scandinavian genes didn’t exactly suit the Australian climate but her sun safety precautions seemed to be working. She tugged on the lapels of her jacket, the text she’d been mentally drafting to Lenore since first waking replaying itself in her head like a Buddhist mantra.

  Would love to have you and Nancy here for Christmas. Let me know your arrival date. Can’t wait to see you.

  That’s where it would remain until she could bring herself to convert thought into action.

  Her breakfast did a well-timed flip inside her stomach. The peanut butter toast plus a banana protein smoothie may have been overkill. It would be fine. She would definitely send the text, just not right now.

  Time to get to work, the perfect distraction.

  Based on the case notes she’d read about her next client, this session could prove challenging. Nothing she couldn’t handle. Dealing with wayward teens had become an integral part of her practice.

  She stepped across the threshold into her waiting room. Having a separate office space made for a good division of work and home. This house had been such a great find.

  ‘Good morning.’

  A chirpy greeting startled Hannah to a stop. She stared at the woman sitting behind the reception desk, her mop of red curls alarmingly bouffant.

  ‘Crystal?’ Was that her name? ‘What are you doing here?’

  For a split second the beaming smile faded, only to be followed by a barking laugh. ‘Oh, you’re good. You almost got me there.’

  ‘Got you?’

  ‘Yeah, you know, like tricked me into thinking you weren’t expecting me. I wouldn’t have taken you for a leg-puller.’

  Leg-puller? What was this woman talking about?

  ‘So …’ Crystal pointed to the computer screen, running her finger down an imaginary line in the air. ‘Pretty full schedule today. Owen Morgan is in first, then—’

  ‘Sorry …’ Either Hannah had entered another dimension where her office had been taken over by an alien impersonating a woman she’d spoken to briefly about possibly taking on a part-time receptionist role, or one of the two of them had the wrong end of a very sharp stick. ‘Did we actually agree on a starting date? As in today?’

  Crystal checked the enormous watch strapped to her wrist, possibly doubling as a resistance weight. ‘Monday, November twenty-eight. That’s today. A day for fresh starts, according to my astrology app.’

  The conversation they’d had only a couple of weeks ago—the last time Hannah had eaten her lunch in at Something’s Brewing, started to coalesce in her brain. Clive had introduced them and said Crystal had great admin skills if she ever needed a receptionist. Crystal had rattled off a verbal resume and said she’d be happy to do a trial and yes, maybe they had agreed on a start date, but why wasn’t it in her diary?

  ‘Okay, maybe we need to—’

  ‘I told you, I’m not going in there by myself.’

  This time the conversation was coming from outside the front door. What was it today with strange voices and out-of-body experiences?

  ‘And I told you, you don’t have a choice,’ a deeper voice replied. ‘Get back here.’

  What the hell was going on?

  Three short, sharp strides and Hannah was at the door. She flung it open and looked straight into the eyes of a six-foot-something man who bore a striking resemblance to the hero of the small-town romance novel that had kept her awake into the small hours of the morning. Milk chocolate eyes, a halo of dark waves and a closely cropped beard covering a very chiselled jawline.

  His lips parted in a hesitant smile. ‘Hi.’

  Hannah swallowed, giving herself an internal shake, and raised a well-trained brow. ‘Can I help you with something?’

  The second person, shorter, still in his teens, had his hands stuck into the front pocket of a grey hoodie and his gaze fixed on his sneakers where he stood, halfway down the front steps, seemingly frozen in place. The taller man pointed a finger in the direction of his companion, then dropped his hands to his hips. The folded-back sleeves of his navy-blue work shirt revealed a fine set of forearms.

  God, Hannah, get a grip. She really needed to change genres if this was the effect of her current reading habits.

  ‘He’s here for an appointment.’ The tall man’s voice was part growl, part rumble. The timbre of rolling thunder. ‘Are you Dr Rasmussen?’

  She sucked up the air trapped in her diaphragm. Blinked. What the hell was she doing? ‘Ah, yes.’ She cleared her throat and adjusted her stance. ‘I am.’ She shifted her attention to the youth stranded on the stairs like a beached whale. ‘And you are …?’

  The older man stepped closer and rested a hand on the younger man’s arm. ‘This is Owen Morgan. I’m his brother, Cole Harrison.’

  Cole. Straight out of the pages of an Elsie Silver romance. ‘Owen, would you like to come in?’ The sooner she got this client into her office, the better. Even though it meant dealing with her least preferred type of case: court-ordered counselling; a client that hadn’t come of his own volition and was most likely to be harbouring more than a smidgeon of resentment. But refusing the referral wouldn’t have been a good decision. She needed to build her profile, not to mention pay the mortgage.

  Owen shuffled from one foot to the other but made no attempt to join them on the verandah.

  Cole shook his head, one corner of his mouth twisting into a knot. ‘What are you waiting for?’ He peered down at Owen, whose head seemed to disappear into his body, turtle-like.

  ‘I’m not going in there alone.’ There was a gruff obstinance to the teenager’s voice underscored by a healthy dose of belligerence, if the jut of his chin and the depth of his scowl were anything to go by. This one was definitely not going to be a pushover.

  Cole’s arms dropped and he slapped a hand against the side of his jeans—possibly in lieu of dragging his brother through the door. ‘So, you’re old enough to go joyriding and smoke dope but you can’t face up to talking to a health professional on your own? What do you think she’s going to do? Bite your head off? Submit you to water torture?’

  ‘Well, that’s certainly not part of the therapy.’ The whole idea was so ludicrous she couldn’t help but grin.

  ‘Sorry.’ Cole threw his hands in the air. ‘I’m just about at my wit’s end.’

  ‘That’s okay.’ She gave him a nod but addressed her words to Owen. ‘Today is all about getting to know each other. Nothing onerous. No hard questions or interrogations. But it is preferable to run the session one-on-one. I promise I won’t put you on a rack.’ There would be no torturing, mental or otherwise.

  ‘Okay.’ Begrudging and reluctant but an agreement nevertheless.

  She waved a hand towards the open door and directed a halfsmile in Cole’s direction. ‘You can wait here if you like. We’ll be done in forty minutes.’

  ‘I have some errands to run.’ Hands shoved into the front pockets of his faded jeans, Cole moved down the stairs in his scuffed boots like a tap-dancing cowboy.

  Thank God that distraction was gone. Never once in her career had Hannah ogled a client or any member of their family. It was highly unprofessional. And would not be happening again.

  Back inside, Crystal was at the door of the consultation room. ‘Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll handle all the calls so you can get your job done.’ She nodded towards Owen, who was already seated, and mouthed two exaggerated syllables: Good luck.

  Luck? Counselling wasn’t about luck. It was about listening. Creating an environment that would allow the client to be receptive and open. Relaxed. Nothing about Owen’s body language, from the stiff set of his jaw to the hunch of his shoulders, seemed relaxed. In fact, everything about him screamed ‘get me out of here’ as he slumped lower.

  Settling into her chair, Hannah clasped her hands loosely in her lap, adopting her usual open posture. Opting not to sit behind a desk for consultations meant there was no barrier between therapist and client, at least not in the physical sense. But it could be intimidating for some. Exposing. Owen’s left leg jiggled up and down, as if he was tapping out the rhythm to a silent song.

  ‘So, Owen, what brings you here today?’

  He looked up, nose wrinkled. ‘What do you mean?’

  She waved a hand, indicating the office space. ‘Why are you here?’

  A grunt. ‘Because I have to be.’

  ‘Says who?’

  This time he rolled his eyes. ‘Says the judge who told me I had to come.’

  ‘But you could have chosen not to.’

  ‘Yeah,’ he scoffed, ‘if I want to go to jail.’

  ‘Juvenile detention.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘But you elected to come here instead.’

  A one-shouldered shrug. ‘Wasn’t much of a choice.’

  Okay, he was talking. Now to zero in. ‘Granted. But here we are. Tell me about yourself.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Whatever you’d like to share … maybe about your hobbies, your family, friends.’

  Owen turned his head and stared out the window.

  ‘Let’s start with your brother, Cole. Tell me a little about him. You’re living with him, aren’t you?’ She most certainly did not have an ulterior motive. It was a reasonable icebreaker, considering their introduction.

  ‘He’s my half-brother. My mum had him when she was a teenager. Before she married my dad.’

  Ah, so that accounted for the age gap. And maybe the physical differences too. While Cole was tall and broad-shouldered and dark-haired, Owen was fine-boned, mousey and no more than average height.

  ‘Do you have any other siblings?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘And why is it that you’re living with Cole?’ She knew the answer, based on the court-supplied notes, but hearing Owen’s perspective would help establish his feelings about his family.

  A shake of the head. ‘My dad had an accident. He has to do a lot of rehab. But that’s not the real reason. It’s just an excuse.’

  ‘Excuse?’

  ‘They want Cole to sort me out.’ A sneer. ‘They don’t want to deal with me anymore. And they want to get me away from my friends.’

  Interesting. Owen had a very large chip balancing precariously on his shoulder. A boulder, in fact, ready to teeter right over the edge of the cliff.

  ‘How did you feel about going to live with your brother?’

  ‘Don’t really care. At least it got me out of home for a while.’

  ‘And you’re not going to school?’ Owen wasn’t yet sixteen, according to the information she’d been given.

  ‘Nup. I’m doing work experience with Cole. As a farrier.’

  Hence the arm muscles on the brother. And the sun-kissed skin edging out from his collar.

  ‘That’s strenuous work. Do you like it?’

  ‘It’s all right. Pretty boring. But I get paid.’

  ‘Do you like horses?’

  ‘Never had much to do with them before. They’re okay, I guess.’

  If Eve Nicholls had been back at work, this kid could be a good contender for some equine therapy, but in the meantime, the traditional kind would have to suffice.

  She glanced down at her notes. ‘So, you’ve been living there for a couple of months now?’

  A nod.

  ‘It must get a little lonely.’ Hundreds of tiny pins stabbed at the inside of her skin. She shifted in her seat, uncrossed her legs and re-crossed them in the opposite direction.

  Owen looked down and picked at the already raw skin around his fingernails. Gave a shrug. ‘There’s ways around it.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘Some of my mates can drive. I get to see them sometimes.’

  ‘Is that when you’re able to buy drugs?’ Yarrabee was no different to any other town—or city, for that matter—there was always someone willing to provide you with whatever you needed for the right price. And based on what she’d read, Owen was definitely in with a wayward crowd.

  He gave a rough laugh. ‘It’s not like weed is that bad. It’s legal in other countries. And they use it here for medical stuff.’

  ‘True. But for better or worse, it remains illegal in Australia. And it can have negative consequences if used to excess—reduced concentration, memory loss, increased anxiety, depression; even schizophrenic episodes.’