‘Um …’ Beth looked around for inspiration and her gaze fell on the tree she’d spied earlier, the one whose branches had shimmered in the morning light. ‘I guess I notice abstract details that some people might not take the time to notice. And I see beauty in the small things.’
Hana nodded. ‘I love that. They’re good qualities for an artist to have. And what are you skilled at? What comes naturally to you that another person might find difficult?’
Beth shrugged. ‘Sketching, maybe?’
‘Just maybe?’ Hana arched an eyebrow. ‘This isn’t the time to be modest.’
‘Okay, I’ll admit I’m good at sketching.’
Hana gave her a dubious look. ‘Beth, you do realise it would take the average person years to develop your level of skill, right?’
‘Really?’ Beth’s mind reeled.
‘Yes, really. Face it, Beth, you’re not normal, and that’s a wonderful thing to be.’
Beth’s smile was slow to come, but when it did, it brought hope with it. Because with a friend like Hana by her side, she knew she could learn not only to accept her new identity but embrace it, too.
* * *
Later, after Hana had gone, Beth emailed one real estate agent and let her know that she wouldn’t be formalising her offer on the Townsville property, then contacted the other to take this place off the market. A call to the removalists to cancel her booking for the following day ticked off the final item on her to-do list. Her talk with Hana had given her a lot of clarity, not least of all that she deserved to be happy.
And leaving Karlup would not make her happy. She knew that now.
In fact, she’d known it for some time. Sure, her future might look a bit murky at present, but this was where she belonged.
Taking a stroll around the house, she imagined it ashomefor the first time since Flo had died. It felt good to daydream again.
She stopped in the doorway to the lounge room. The place was a shambles—boxes everywhere, the mattress in the middle of the floor, the stuff she’d brought with her from the B&B lined up against the wall—but despite the mess, this was where she’d spent most of her time recently. She didn’t know what it was about the room, but something about it just feltright. She felt at peace in here.
Her gaze fell on her sketchbook, which sat on top of a pile of books over by the window. Side-stepping her way through the clutter, she retrieved it and flipped it open to the last sketch she’d done. Flo’s sweet face was right there on the page, her eyes downcast as she crocheted. The likeness was true enough that it brought both a tear to Beth’s eye and a smile to her face.
After she’d taken a moment to miss Flo and be sad, Beth studied the image a little more critically. She could see the imperfections, where she could improve, but her talk with Hana had buoyed her confidence.
Feeling the urge to create, she located her stationery supplies buried under a mountain of clothes and rummaged around for a pencil. Taking the sketchbook, she went to sit on her makeshift bed and wrapped herself in her sunflower blanket.
She snuggled down into the cosiness—it was like getting a hug from Flo herself—and tore the portrait from her sketchbook. Laying it beside her for guidance, she put her pencil to the page and tried again.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-ONE
When she woke the following morning, the sun was high in the sky. She stretched and rolled over, feeling more well rested than she had in a long time. Probably because she’d slept for a good twelve hours. Clearly, talking to Hana yesterday and getting so much off her chest had helped.
Feeling oddly content, she picked up one of the sketches she’d done last night—another portrait of Flo, but in this one, Flo had that faraway look on her face that she’d get whenever she shared stories of Pru. Wherever they were now, Beth hoped the two friends had reunited. In fact, maybe the promise of an afterlife and seeing Pru again was what gave Flo comfort in the end. Still, not for the first time, Beth wished she’d had the chance to say goodbye.
Maybe she still could. She could write a—
A letter!
She shot upright. Flo had writtenhera letter! At least, she assumed the envelope Olive had delivered contained a letter. Perhaps reading it now would give her a sense of closure.
Scrambling to her feet, she scanned the room for the box she’d stashed it in, and there it was, sitting on a pile of packing boxes, the small shoebox full of Campbell family photos that Noah had given her on Boxing Day. Which she still hadn’t sorted through.
She snatched the shoebox from its perch and, sitting cross-legged on the mattress, lifted the lid off the box. On top of a heap of photos lay the envelope with her name on the front. With unsteady hands, she picked it up, removed the sheet of paper from inside, and began devouring Flo’s words.
To my dearest Beth, my sweet girl,
I’ll be honest, I’m not quite sure where to start, but I guess the first thing I want to say is please don’t be sad. Or, at least, don’t be sad for too long. Because, if you’re reading this, it means I’m right where I belong and where I want to be—by Pru’s side, once again.
