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Last of this season’s apples will be for sale at the gate of Razzle Dazzle Orchard or you can grab yourself a 4kg mixed box at the General Store. $5 a kilo or $18 for a box.
I knocked the dirt from my boots on the bottom step, my breath misting up. The house entrance glowed at dusk. The stained-glass detail of the front door was a pretty distraction from our rundown homestead.
Our realhome.
If only moving out the homestead had been delayed by a few days. Dad would still be alive and I … I’d be different, I guess.
But now, ten years on, I was finally going to finish the painting job he’d started.
“Everything looks sexier in dim lighting.”
I dumping my bags and toed off my boots beside the hallstand. I righted a pair of antique riding boots beside mine, remembering Dad’s words.If a Turner lives in this house, these boots always rest at the front door. The boots of James Ezekiel Turner, our ancestor who’d finished building the homestead.
My gaze flicked up to the broken glass in the front door patched with plastic and tape. That had been on my to-do list for months now.
But it would still have to wait. The formal lounge, the parlour as James Ezekiel Turner had called it back in his day, was my focus.
At 170-years-old, the homestead needed constant maintenance. But tonight, our home had a spark about it; family flitted down the hall, shouting and laughing, pots banged in the kitchen and the smell of roast meat wafted down the hall.
Sunday dinner was sacred; everyone attended no matter what but there was no fuss or cause to dress up. But tonight, Amanda was calling from the UK.
Ryan strode down the hallway, cupping his hands, the tattoos on his right arm popping out against his white shirt. His voice boomed off the stone walls.
“Charlotte, you’d better be dressed for dinner, young lady! Tom, hurry up with the wine! And Mum, need some help getting the table ready! Come on, turn it up to eleven, Turners! Get moving!”
As he flicked a tea towel over his shoulder, Ryan noticed me in the entrance way.
“Welcome back, Stace. And yes, before you ask, I didn’t forget to cover the veggies before the frost settled. Pleased to say the fire was contained and out in under two hours last night. And Charlotte’s fever broke but her mum isn’t here tonight. Em flew out to the mine yesterday and will be back in ten days. And, wait a sec—”
Ryan looked me up and down. Usually, I’d wear jeans and a jumper. But tonight, I was wearing something new: a black, long-sleeved jumpsuit with metallic studs along the V-neck collar which revealed a little cleavage, and most importantly, had pockets.
My brother’s scrutiny was completely different to Brayden’s. He was estimating how much money I’d spent.
Note to self: tell Ryan later about Brayden
“I needed new clothes. All came from op shops.” I folded my arms. “I didn’t spend over my budget. So even don’t start.”
He crossed his arms. The two of us were in a stare-off, like wild west gunslingers, minus the guns.
“I wasn’t going to ask for receipts or anything. I was just going to say you look really nice.”
“Oh. Well, thanks.”
Ryan pulled me in for a quick hug. “Glad you’re back, Stace.” He released me and clapped his hands.
“Come on, everyone! Phone call in nine minutes. I’m putting dinner on the table in eight. Let’s move it!”
He hurried back to the kitchen, pointing at me. “Napkins, placemats, salt and pepper. You’re it.”
Tom jogged up the stairs to my left from the cellar, holding two bottles of wine. I couldn’t help but marvel how walking up a flight of stairs transported you fifty years in an instant from the 1840s convict-built river rock up the Victorian-era balustrade.
“Stace!” Tom called. “Give us a hug.” I wrapped my arms around my youngest brother and then took one of his wine bottles. He’d swapped his usual farm clothes for crisply ironed, navy-blue, button-down shirt and dress pants.
“Christ on a quad bike, Ryan’s uptight tonight,” he grumbled, glance to the kitchen. “Phone call with Amanda has got him in a right tizz.”
“I’d noticed. But why? It’s just a call.”
Tom shrugged.
