The homestead. She was in the Brennans’ original homestead and, apparently, had spent the night on the couch.
With a groan, she pushed up onto an elbow and glanced around, looking for Ellie, but found no sign of her. She’d probably already left for the main house. Celia was serving breakfast at nine and—Beth glanced at her phone—it was already eight thirty.
Flopping back onto the downy couch cushions, she sighed as yesterday’s events came flooding back and stirred up a bunch of unwelcome emotions—an equal mix of deep-seated yearning and unadulterated fear.
Noah had forced her to think about her options. She could stay … or she could leave, just like she’d always planned. She could risk the life she’d built for herself in Townsville or turn her back on these people, this town—a place where she had the potential to belong. Either way, she’d be suffering a loss and realising a dream, but how on earth was she meant to choose between two things she desperately wanted?
With a huff of frustration, she rose from the couch, grabbed her overnight bag and dragged her feet to the bathroom, where she showered and got ready for the day, unable to think of anything else but the decision she’d have to make sooner or later.
She was halfway through brushing her teeth when the solution to her predicament hit her. It seemed so obvious now. Strange that she hadn’t thought of it sooner. But she’d been thinking in black and white, and the answer lay smack bang in the middle of the grey area.
Grinning around her toothbrush at the thought of being able to have her cake and eat it too, she leaned over the sink and spat—right as a knock sounded on the front door.
Knowing that if it were Ellie, she’d simply barge right in, Beth rinsed her mouth and stuck her head out into the living area.
‘Come in!’
After patting her face dry, she exited the bathroom to find Noah closing the front door, an old blue shoebox held in one hand. Her heart leapt when she saw it was him; she couldn’t wait to tell him of her decision. After all, it had been his advice that’d put the idea in her head.
When he turned, however, he barely glanced at her. ‘Morning.’
Her excitement dimmed. ‘Good morning.’
Crossing to the kitchen, he placed the shoebox on the counter and gestured towards it. ‘The rest of Pru’s photos. You should have them.’
‘Thank you.’ He was always thinking of her. Evidently, even after they argued.
She decided, though, that she wouldn’t look at the photos just yet; there’d be plenty of time to pore over them later. For now, she needed to live in the present, not the past, and in this moment, she wanted nothing more than to tell Noah her news … only she didn’t know how. Not when he was being so standoffish. She needed to figure out how to mend their rift.
‘Okay,’ he said when the silence stretched between them. ‘I guess I’ll see you at breakfast.’
He turned to leave and she panicked.
‘Wait!’
Halting mid-stride, he slowly turned to face her.
She cast her eyes around the open-plan room, looking for inspiration, a reason to make him stay.
‘This place is amazing, Noah,’ she told him, gesturing at the glorious country kitchen and cosy sitting area. ‘You’re really talented.’
His only response was a nod.
‘And I didn’t fail to notice these. Your trademark, right?’ She pointed to the framed photographs hanging on the wall and threw Noah a hopeful smile. ‘Will you tell me about them?’
She held her breath as his gaze flitted between her and the pictures, and then, thank god, his solemn expression lifted and he shoved his hands in his pockets and moved towards her. She let out a relieved sigh. She could do this.
‘Is that your dad?’ she asked, pointing to one of the photographs. Though Mick looked younger in this image than he did in the photo in Noah’s entryway, the curly black hair was a dead giveaway. Wearing short shorts that screamed of the eighties, he stood beside a sapling with an arm resting on a shovel and his hip cocked.
‘Yep,’ Noah confirmed, ‘and that’s the red flowering gum out front.’
Beth squinted at the house in the background of the photo. ‘Oh, right! I hardly recognised the place.’ Back then, there was no charming white picket fence in front of the homestead and the corrugated tin on the roof was mottled with rust.
Seeing that photograph did something to her. The disrepair of the old building made it obvious that it had stood for many years and had no doubt been home to Mick and many others, but despite capturing the history of the place, the image also depicted the birth of something new—a tree that would grow tall, offering a shady resting spot for all who came after. It spoke of the steadfastness of house and land, the anchors that connected generations.
She moved onto the next photo—a black-and-white image of a small boy and an old man crouched in front of a fireplace. Squinting at the little boy’s features, she gazed up at Noah. ‘Is this you?’
‘Yeah,’ he said softly, ‘that’s me and Gramps.’
