The Complete Red-Hot And Historical Collection. Kelly HunterЧитать онлайн книгу.
of Brodie were insistent, but she cranked up the music to drown them out.
After spending the morning at her audition for the Harbour Dance Company she’d gone looking for a cheap apartment to rent. Luck must have been on her side. A tiny one-bedroom place had been vacant for a few weeks and the owner was desperate to get someone in. As she’d signed the paperwork a call had come from the dance company, congratulating her on a successful audition.
Now she was on her way to visit her mother and collect all the boxes she’d stored there. Everything had turned out the way she’d wanted it to—once her bar contract was over it would all be perfect. So why didn’t she have a sense of accomplishment and relief?
Brodie.
He’d been the only thing on her mind since she’d walked away. It had barely been three days and already there was a gaping hole in her life where he’d inserted himself in their short time together. She missed his cheeky smile, the way his arms felt as they squeezed her against him, his lips. The unmanageable desire that materialised whenever he was around. How could she have let herself fall so hard? So quickly and so deeply?
Her childhood home came into view as Chantal rounded the corner at Beach Road, where blue water lined the quiet coast of Batemans Bay. Home sweet home.
The roads were empty. Most of the tourists from Canberra would have gone home by now. Work would be slow for her mum… the motels and self-contained units that dotted the shoreline wouldn’t need extra cleaning services now that summer was over. Hopefully she still had a gig with the local high school to at least cover rent and bills. Though there would be little left over after the essentials were covered.
Chantal pulled into the parking bay of the apartment block and killed the engine. Stepping out of the car, she smiled at the way the number on their letterbox still hung at a funny angle and the squat garden gnome she’d given her mother one Christmas still guarded the steps up to their second-floor apartment.
The stairs were rickety beneath her feet, and the railing’s paintwork peeled off in rough chunks. She was certain it had been white at one point—now it looked closer to the colour of pale custard. The doorbell trilled and footsteps immediately sounded from within the front room. Her mother appeared and ushered Chantal inside with brisk familiarity.
‘You should have called. I would have put afternoon tea on.’ Her mother enveloped her in a quick hug.
Frances Turner’s affection was like everything else she did: quick, efficient and with minimal fuss. She’d never been overly demonstrative while Chantal was growing up, but age had softened her edges.
‘No need,’ Chantal said, smiling and waving her hand. ‘I’m here to visit you—not to eat.’
It was more that she hadn’t wanted her mother to feel obligated to go out and buy biscuits, or the fancy tea she liked to drink when Chantal came over. It was easy to see where her desire to keep up appearances had come from.
‘Sit, sit…’
Frances gestured to the couch—a tattered floral two-seater that had yellowed with age. Chantal remembered using the back of it as a substitute barre while practising for her ballet exams.
‘How are you?’
‘I’m good.’ She smiled brightly, pulling her lips up into a curve and hoping her mother didn’t look too closely. ‘I got a call this morning. I’m joining the Harbour Dance Company.’
Frances clapped her hands together. ‘I knew you could do it, baby girl.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
‘Why the sad face?’ Frances studied her with olive-green eyes identical to hers. Nothing got past those eyes. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Oh, it’s nothing,’ Chantal said, but she couldn’t force the tremble from her voice. ‘Boy problems.’
‘Derek’s not giving you trouble again, is he?’ Her thin lips pulled into a flat line. Her mother had hated Derek from day one—something Chantal should have paid more attention to.
‘No, Derek is long gone.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve been spending some time with an old friend. It got… confusing.’
‘How so?’ Frances motioned for Chantal to follow her into the kitchen.
Yellow floral linoleum covered the floor, matching the painted yellow dining chairs and the small round dining table. The kitchen was her favourite part of the unit—it was kind of garish and dated, but it had the heart of a good home.
She traced her fingertip along the length of a photo on the wall. Chantal stood with her mother, wearing a jazz dance costume they’d stayed up till midnight sequinning the night before a competition. She had a gap-toothed grin and her mother looked exhausted. She didn’t remember her mother looking that way at the time. All she’d cared about was the trophy clutched in her young hand.
Guilt scythed through her.
‘He doesn’t get me and I don’t get him. We’re different people.’
‘But you liked him enough to spend time with him?’ Frances twisted the tap, holding the kettle under the running water with her other hand.
‘I did.’ I do…
‘And you think it’s not good to be different?’ Her mother threw her a look she’d seen a lot growing up. She called it the Get off your high horse look.
‘It’s not that. It’s just…’ How could she explain it? ‘He wanted to do everything for me. And I’m capable of doing things myself. I want to do things myself. I don’t need some knight in shining armour to rescue me.’
Her mother would be the one person who would understand. She’d stood on her own two feet since Chantal’s father had walked out. She knew what it meant to be independent—what it meant to achieve things on your own.
‘And that bothers you?’
‘It does. It’s like he can’t understand that I need to fix my own problems.’ She sighed. ‘I want to be able to say that I made my way without any hand-outs.’
‘Accepting help is not the same as accepting a hand-out, Chantal. There’s no gold medal for struggling through life on your own.’
The kettle whistled, cutting into their conversation with a loud screech. Frances lifted it from the stove and poured the piping hot water into two mugs with pictures of cats all over them.
‘I know that.’
‘Don’t you think I would have accepted some help if it was available when you were growing up?’
The question rattled Chantal. ‘But you used to tell me that it was us against the world and we had to work hard.’
‘I wanted you to be strong, baby girl. I wanted you to be tough.’ She dropped the teabags into the bin and handed a mug to Chantal. ‘Sometimes being strong means knowing when you can’t do it on your own. Accepting help doesn’t make you weak.’
They moved to the table, and Chantal was glad to be sitting on something solid. Her knees had turned to jelly, and her breath was escaping her lungs in a long whoosh. Her mother had tipped all her long-held beliefs on their head.
‘I would have killed for someone to come along and offer a hand when you were younger.’ Frances blew on the curling steam from the tea. ‘Though I feel like I did a pretty good job with you, considering.’
A smile tugged at the corners of Chantal’s lips. ‘Would it be conceited if I agree?’
‘Not at all.’ Frances reached across the small table and patted the back of her hand.
‘I’ve stuffed up, haven’t I?’
Realisation flooded her, running across her nerves until her whole body was alight with the knowledge