Who Wants To Marry a Millionaire?. Nicola MarshЧитать онлайн книгу.
only place she’d ever felt safe, content and truly at home had been ripped away. The only place where she could be herself, no questions asked, away from scrutinising stares and being found lacking because she wasn’t like other girls her age.
She’d dealt with her grief at losing her dad, and now she’d have to mourn the loss of their special place too. Not fair.
As she glanced around the workshop, at her dad’s dust-covered tools, the unfinished garden bench he’d been working on when he died, his tool-belt folded and stored in its usual spot by the disused garden pots, her resolve hardened.
Now the land was gone, memories were all she had left. They’d been a team. He’d loved her for who she was. She owed him.
Unzipping her sleeping bag, she wriggled out of it and glanced at her watch. 6:00 a.m. Good. Time for her mum to get a wake-up call in more ways than one.
To her surprise, Coral answered the door on the first ring.
‘Gemma? What a lovely surprise.’
Coral opened the door wider and ushered her in, but not before her sweeping glance took in Gemma’s crushed leisure suit that had doubled as pyjamas, her steel-capped boots and her mussed hair dragged into a ponytail.
As for last night’s make-up, which she’d caked on as part of her ruse, she could only imagine the panda eyes she’d be sporting.
A little rattled her mum hadn’t commented on her appearance, or the early hour, she clomped inside and headed for the kitchen, about the only place in their immaculate South Yarra home she felt comfortable in.
‘You’re up early.’
Coral stiffened, before busying herself with firing up the espresso machine. ‘I don’t sleep much these days.’
‘Insomnia?’
‘Something like that.’
A flicker of guilt shot through her. She remembered her mum pacing in the middle of the night after her dad had died, but she’d been too wrapped up in her own grief to worry.
That was when the first chink in their relationship had appeared.
Coral had always been self-sufficient and capable and in control, and she had handled Karl’s death with her usual aplomb. While she’d cried herself to sleep each night for the first few months, her mum would stride around the house at all hours, dusting and tidying and ensuring her home was a showpiece.
It had been a coping mechanism, and when the pacing had eventually stopped she’d thought Coral had finally adjusted to sleeping alone, but considering the early hour and the fact her mum was fully dressed, maybe her sleep patterns had been permanently shot?
‘Coffee?’
Gemma nodded. ‘Please.’
‘Have you come straight from a work site?’
There it was: the first foray into critical territory, a territory Gemma knew too well. How many times had she borne her mum’s barbs after her dad died?
Have you washed your hair?
Can’t you wear a dress for once?
No boy’s going to ask a tomboy to the graduation ball.
She’d learned to tune out, and with every dig she’d hardened her heart, pretending she didn’t care while wishing inside she could be the kind of daughter Coral wanted.
‘I actually got in last night.’
Coral’s hand stilled midway between the sugar bowl and the mug. ‘Why didn’t you stay here?’
‘I did. I bunked down in Dad’s workshop.’
Horror warred with distaste before Coral blinked and assumed her usual stoical mask. ‘You always did feel more comfortable out there.’
‘True.’
Gemma could have sworn her mum’s shoulders slumped before she resumed bustling around the kitchen.
Why did you do it? It buzzed around her head, the question demanding to be asked, but she knew better than to bail Coral up before her first caffeine hit of the day. She’d clam up or storm off in a huff, and that wouldn’t cut it—not today. Today she needed answers.
‘How long are you here for?’
As long as it takes to whip Rory Devlin’s butt into shape.
Devlin’s butt … bad analogy.
An image of dark blue eyes the colour of a Kimberley sky at night flashed into her mind, closely followed by the way he’d filled out his fancy-schmancy suit, his slick haircut, his cut-glass cheekbones.
At six-four he had the height to command attention, but the rest of the package sold it. The guy might be a cold-hearted, infuriating, corporate shark who cared for nothing bar the bottom dollar but, wow, he packed some serious heat.
She hated the fact she’d noticed.
‘I’m here for a job.’
She sighed with pleasure as the first tantalising waft of roasted coffee beans hit her.
Watching her mum carefully for a reaction, she added, ‘Out at Portsea.’
Coral’s head snapped up, her eyes wide with fear. ‘You know?’
‘That you sold out? That you got rid of the one thing that meant everything to Dad?’
To me?
She slid off the bar stool and slammed her palms on the island bench. ‘Of course I know.’
‘I—I was going to tell you—’
‘When? When I returned to Melbourne to build my dream home on that land? The home Dad helped me plan years ago? The home where I’d planned on raising my kids?’
Okay, so the latter might be stretching the truth a tad. She had no intention of getting married, let alone having kids, but the inner devastation she kept hidden enjoyed stabbing the knife of guilt and twisting hard.
Coral’s lips compressed into the thin, unimpressed line she’d seen many times growing up. ‘Sorry you feel that way, but you can’t bowl in here every few years, stay for a day, and expect to know every detail of my life.’
Shock filtered through Gemma’s astonishment. She had every right to know what happened to her dad’s land, but she’d never heard Coral raise her voice above a cultured tsk-tsk if they didn’t agree.
‘I’m not asking for every detail, just the important ones—like why you had to sell something that meant the world to me.’
Fear flickered across Coral’s expertly made-up face before she turned away on the pretext of pouring coffee.
‘I—I needed the money.’
She spoke so softly Gemma strained to hear it.
Coral—who wore the best clothes, used the most expensive cosmetics and lunched out daily—needed money?
‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ she muttered, sorrow and regret clogging her lungs, making simple inhalation impossible.
She wanted to explain why this meant so much to her, wanted her mum to understand how she’d travelled the world for years, never feeling as sheltered as she did at Portsea.
She wanted her mum to truly comprehend the vulnerabilities behind her tough-girl exterior, the deep-seated need for approval she’d deliberately hidden beneath layers of practised indifference.
She wanted her mum to realise her anger was about the loss of another childhood security rather than not being consulted.
She opened her mouth to speak but the words wouldn’t come. Not after all this time. Not after the