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MURDERED DARLINGS
When I first submitted my manuscript for Lost In Kakadu to Harlequin Escape I received a wonderful response showing interest but with some conditions. One of them was that I remove all the flashbacks from the novel. (You can read about how I got 'The CALL' here) |
A story of survival, grief, endurance and undying love.
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Now removing flashbacks doesn't seem like such an ask, right? Well I had 15 of them, most of them I loved dearly. So after considering the offer and discussing it in great length with my editor, I decided to remove them and weave the information into the story. This was another six months hard work, but Lost in Kakadu is now a much stronger story so it was well worth the effort.
Here are some of my Murdered Darlings. They are in their raw form, so there's no need to point out the errors. But take care...there are spoilers.
Here are some of my Murdered Darlings. They are in their raw form, so there's no need to point out the errors. But take care...there are spoilers.
Flashback - The horse riding accident.
Abigail gripped onto the leather reins until her knuckles turned white. Fear kept her back rod straight. She concentrated on rising out of saddle to meet the horse’s rhythm and she heard the ragged breaths of Peter, their stable manager, as he paced along beside the horse. Peter said words of encouragement to the horse as it settled into its new surroundings.
“That’s a boy. Well done, Atlas.”
As they pranced around the arena, Abigail noticed her father glaring at her from the balcony. His eyes were as menacing as a double barrel shotgun.
“You’re doing well, honey,” she heard her mother say.
Her father had given her the horse that day, insisting it was time for her to progress from a pony. Abigail had cried all morning when she learned her favorite pony, Jasper, had been exchanged for this monster. Atlas was sixteen hands high and Abigail felt like she was balancing on wobbling stilts. Her stomach trembled with tension and she thought she may throw up.
“Take her into the paddock, Peter,” her father demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Peter obediently responded.
“No! I’m not ready,” Abigail yelled, scanning the lodge for her mother.
“Don’t be absurd, Abigail. He’s no different to riding Jasper.” Her father’s voice was a commanding bark.
“But Daddy, I’ll fall off.”
“Stop your whining.” He paused. “Peter, I’m waiting.”
“Yes, sir.”
Abigail looked down at Peter and saw uncertainty in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, but I have to do what he says.”
Her eyes blurred. “But I’ll fall off.”
“Just pretend he’s Jasper.”
“How can I? He’s twice as high, he’ll be twice as fast.”
Peter ignored her pleading, led the horse to the gate, lifted the latch and pushed the gate outward. The stiff hinges emitted a metallic scrape and Atlas balked, then the huge horse reared up and bolted through the gap. Abigail shrieked as the horse galloped from the training arena. She leaned into the saddle, gripped the pommel with both hands and despite desperately squeezing with her legs, bounced heavily upon the leather seat like a potato sack. Behind her, she heard Peter’s frantic commands. “Pull the reins, pull on the reins.”
Fear froze her and she couldn’t make her fingers release the saddle to grab the reins. Atlas galloped over the hill, panting heavily, as his solid feet thumped into the luscious grass at a frantic pace. At the base of the hill, they approached the orchard with lightning speed. The gnarled grape vines, strapped together with sturdy wire, stood in precise rows.
Her heart thundered as she realized the horse was galloping too fast down the hill to stop in time. She screamed as they raced headlong into impending danger. The horse reared up at the last minute, but it was too late, he crashed into the orchard with fear driven momentum, tearing the wire from the concrete struts. The horse’s terror matched Abigail’s as she flew through the air.
Abigail saw the whites of Atlas’s eyes as she sailed over his head. She braced for impact and pain ripped through her back and shoulder as she collided with brutal force into a hardened grape plant. Its thick branches sliced into her soft skin and the wire trellis caught on her ankle and she heard a sickening snap in her leg. Her agonizing cries combined with the horses and, unable to lift herself off the vine, she peered at Atlas and saw blood pouring down his neck as white froth oozed from his nose.
But her fear increased when she saw her father standing like a general’s statue at the top of the hill. His shotgun rested on his shoulder, his sickening grin indicated he was enjoying the scene before him. Her mother attempted to race ahead of him, but he shoved her back with a forceful arm.
Abigail struggled to stand when she saw her father striding toward her.
She closed her eyes, covered her ears and willed herself to block out the sound she knew was coming. But the boom of the gun penetrated her eardrums and the horse’s distress was brutally cut off. The gunshot resonated in her head as she lay shaking with fear.
The unnatural silence was shattered by her mother’s panic stricken actions as she clambered over the vines.
Her mother’s hands trembled as she helped Peter lift her off the demolished plants. The gun exploded again as her father shot the six thousand dollar horse for a second time. Abigail stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open, wondering if she was next. Smoke wafted from the gun barrel as he casually slung the weapon over his shoulder. She thought she was going to die, but feared her father more than death and found a strange comfort in simply closing her eyes and never waking up.
Her father turned to her and stared with evil eyes. “This is your fault.”
“Edmond, don’t,” her mother pleaded.
“Shut up, Katrina. She needs to hear it. You’re a pathetic excuse for a child and you’ll never amount to anything. The sooner you learn that girls are only good for fucking and cooking the better. Don’t expect any sympathy from me. You deserved this. You’re an ungrateful bitch.”
He stomped away. “Because of you, I’ll never have a son,” he bellowed loud enough for her to hear. She collapsed then faded into a
whirlwind of pain and nausea.
Abigail’s injuries included a broken leg, a broken collar bone and several deep cuts that required over eighty stitches, but none of them hurt as much as her father’s words. It wasn’t until after his death that she learnt the reason for his hatred toward her. During her birth, her mother had nearly died. The doctor had no choice but to perform an emergency hysterectomy, killing any chance she had of having another child. Abigail’s father blamed both her and her mother for robbing him of a son.
Want to read the real story? Click here.
“That’s a boy. Well done, Atlas.”
As they pranced around the arena, Abigail noticed her father glaring at her from the balcony. His eyes were as menacing as a double barrel shotgun.
“You’re doing well, honey,” she heard her mother say.
Her father had given her the horse that day, insisting it was time for her to progress from a pony. Abigail had cried all morning when she learned her favorite pony, Jasper, had been exchanged for this monster. Atlas was sixteen hands high and Abigail felt like she was balancing on wobbling stilts. Her stomach trembled with tension and she thought she may throw up.
“Take her into the paddock, Peter,” her father demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Peter obediently responded.
“No! I’m not ready,” Abigail yelled, scanning the lodge for her mother.
“Don’t be absurd, Abigail. He’s no different to riding Jasper.” Her father’s voice was a commanding bark.
“But Daddy, I’ll fall off.”
“Stop your whining.” He paused. “Peter, I’m waiting.”
“Yes, sir.”
Abigail looked down at Peter and saw uncertainty in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, but I have to do what he says.”
Her eyes blurred. “But I’ll fall off.”
“Just pretend he’s Jasper.”
“How can I? He’s twice as high, he’ll be twice as fast.”
Peter ignored her pleading, led the horse to the gate, lifted the latch and pushed the gate outward. The stiff hinges emitted a metallic scrape and Atlas balked, then the huge horse reared up and bolted through the gap. Abigail shrieked as the horse galloped from the training arena. She leaned into the saddle, gripped the pommel with both hands and despite desperately squeezing with her legs, bounced heavily upon the leather seat like a potato sack. Behind her, she heard Peter’s frantic commands. “Pull the reins, pull on the reins.”
Fear froze her and she couldn’t make her fingers release the saddle to grab the reins. Atlas galloped over the hill, panting heavily, as his solid feet thumped into the luscious grass at a frantic pace. At the base of the hill, they approached the orchard with lightning speed. The gnarled grape vines, strapped together with sturdy wire, stood in precise rows.
Her heart thundered as she realized the horse was galloping too fast down the hill to stop in time. She screamed as they raced headlong into impending danger. The horse reared up at the last minute, but it was too late, he crashed into the orchard with fear driven momentum, tearing the wire from the concrete struts. The horse’s terror matched Abigail’s as she flew through the air.
Abigail saw the whites of Atlas’s eyes as she sailed over his head. She braced for impact and pain ripped through her back and shoulder as she collided with brutal force into a hardened grape plant. Its thick branches sliced into her soft skin and the wire trellis caught on her ankle and she heard a sickening snap in her leg. Her agonizing cries combined with the horses and, unable to lift herself off the vine, she peered at Atlas and saw blood pouring down his neck as white froth oozed from his nose.
But her fear increased when she saw her father standing like a general’s statue at the top of the hill. His shotgun rested on his shoulder, his sickening grin indicated he was enjoying the scene before him. Her mother attempted to race ahead of him, but he shoved her back with a forceful arm.
Abigail struggled to stand when she saw her father striding toward her.
She closed her eyes, covered her ears and willed herself to block out the sound she knew was coming. But the boom of the gun penetrated her eardrums and the horse’s distress was brutally cut off. The gunshot resonated in her head as she lay shaking with fear.
The unnatural silence was shattered by her mother’s panic stricken actions as she clambered over the vines.
Her mother’s hands trembled as she helped Peter lift her off the demolished plants. The gun exploded again as her father shot the six thousand dollar horse for a second time. Abigail stared at him, eyes wide, mouth open, wondering if she was next. Smoke wafted from the gun barrel as he casually slung the weapon over his shoulder. She thought she was going to die, but feared her father more than death and found a strange comfort in simply closing her eyes and never waking up.
Her father turned to her and stared with evil eyes. “This is your fault.”
“Edmond, don’t,” her mother pleaded.
“Shut up, Katrina. She needs to hear it. You’re a pathetic excuse for a child and you’ll never amount to anything. The sooner you learn that girls are only good for fucking and cooking the better. Don’t expect any sympathy from me. You deserved this. You’re an ungrateful bitch.”
He stomped away. “Because of you, I’ll never have a son,” he bellowed loud enough for her to hear. She collapsed then faded into a
whirlwind of pain and nausea.
Abigail’s injuries included a broken leg, a broken collar bone and several deep cuts that required over eighty stitches, but none of them hurt as much as her father’s words. It wasn’t until after his death that she learnt the reason for his hatred toward her. During her birth, her mother had nearly died. The doctor had no choice but to perform an emergency hysterectomy, killing any chance she had of having another child. Abigail’s father blamed both her and her mother for robbing him of a son.
Want to read the real story? Click here.
Flashback - Abigail overhears Spencer
Abigail eased off the saddle, slid down the side of her grey thoroughbred and guided the reins over the horses head. As she rubbed Silver’s nose she spoke in soft reassuring tones. “Good work today. Thank you.” The horse leaned in for a scratch and plumes of steam puffed from his black nostrils as she led him toward the stable. Matching pillars of carved mahogany adorned the entrance and she ran her fingers along the smooth wooden surface as Silver’s hooves echoed on the cobblestone floor. She was greeted by the stable manager, Steve.
“How was your ride, Mrs Mulholland?”
“He did really well today.” She smoothed down the horse’s silky mane. “One day we’ll convince those bureaucrats we’re good enough. Won’t we, Silver?”
“You’re ready now, Mrs Mulholland.”
“Thank you, but it’s going to take a bit more than good riding to convince those old boys. Give him a good rub down. He’s got a full lather.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Abigail kicked mud off the heel of her riding boot and as she walked across the manicured lawn she removed her riding helmet and fussed with her hair. Small yellow butterflies stirred above the mock orange hedge and the jasmine smelt sweet and strong. The sun was a white ball high above the roof and she shielded her eyes to look up at her bedroom. To her surprise Spencer stood at the large bay window, his hand hard against his ear and she realized he was on his phone. Her heart skipped a beat as she waved up at him and increased her pace, but if he noticed her, he didn’t show it.
She entered through the kitchen and unzipped her boots. Her cook was at the stove, stirring a heavy pan with a wooden spoon and garlic and onion aromas were abundant. “Not too much garlic, Ruth. We have a function tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t be late tonight. You took too long yesterday.” Abigail didn’t wait for a reply as she strode from the kitchen. As she passed through the dining room, she was pleased to see a fresh bunch of oriental lilies adorning the long, polished table. Reaching for the gold trimmed balustrade she gripped with her toes as her stockinged feet slipped on the marble stairs. At the top of the stairs, she glanced at herself in the antique mirror and recoiled at the reflection. Mascara smudged below her eyes and her limp hair hung like a bedraggled mop. She quietly retreated into the second entrance of the en-suite bathroom and as she smoothed a makeup sponge below her eyes she heard Spencer talking. Inching to the door, she listened.
“No, I can’t come now,” he said in a gruff voice.
“You know why … Because she’s here... I don’t know... Look, she’s out riding;
I’ll make up something when she gets in... I’ll ring when I’m on my way.” There was a long pause and then he said, “You, too babe.”
Abigail’s heart sank and her world commenced a slow spin as her knees weakened. Returning to the china basin, she clung to it for support and reluctantly gazed into the mirror. She hated what she saw. Her eyes were too close together, her lips insipid pink and her freckles were dark blemishes on her milky pale skin. For years she had known of Spencer’s affairs and tried to accept that was who he was. Hell, she had been his mistress once and knew exactly how wonderfully he could treat a woman. But she didn’t want to lose him. Look at me, I can’t be Ex Mrs Mulholland. A tear spilled down her cheek and she flicked it away.
She pulled her shoulders back, ran a comb through her hair, applied a light mist of hair spray and dabbed Kiera Mai perfume onto her wrists. Easing back out the second doorway, she walked along the landing to the bedroom door and entered without pause. Spencer was peering out the bay window with his hands on his hips. He jumped and turned toward her.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t see you ride in.”
“We rode home through the west field.”
He stepped toward her with his palms open, masking his deceit like an expert poker player. She accepted his arms around her and smelt his subtle aftershave but was surprised to hear his thundering heartbeat.
Maybe he isn’t so collected.
“I have some wonderful news to tell you,” she said. “I was hoping we could have a cup of tea together.” For a fleeting moment she thought he might take her up on the offer, but inevitably he pulled away from her.
He held her at arm’s length and she stared into his frosty blue eyes. “I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t.” Releasing his grip he turned to the bay window. “I just had a call from Thomas. He needs me to sign some papers.” And with that comment she knew it was pointless to argue. Thomas was everything to Spencer, business partner, confidant, drinking buddy, and Thomas would cover for him, no matter what the situation.
“But it’s Friday. You never go in on Fridays.”
“I know, but he said it was important. I’m sure I won’t be too long. I’ll be all yours when I get back.”
“I’ll come with you and we’ll have coffee at the club.”
“Don’t be silly. You look frightful. I can’t have you prancing about the club looking like that.”
“I’ll shower,” she said half-heartedly.
He pushed his mobile into his pocket and bent down to kiss her forehead. “Not today, darling. I’ll see you when I get home.”
Moments later, he vanished out the door and she was left alone in the sun drenched room.
Abigail hated every inch of the décor in this room and right now it was even more oppressive. She lay back on the feather doona and stared at the lightshade dangling above her. The hideous creation of hand carved wood and stone was a gift from a tribal elder Spencer met in the Congo. He had insisted the decorator use it as the focal point of the room and every night she stared at it inventing scenarios that would make it mysteriously disappear.
(NOTE: THE HORSES NAME WAS CHANGE IN THE FINAL ROUND OF EDITS)
“How was your ride, Mrs Mulholland?”
“He did really well today.” She smoothed down the horse’s silky mane. “One day we’ll convince those bureaucrats we’re good enough. Won’t we, Silver?”
“You’re ready now, Mrs Mulholland.”
“Thank you, but it’s going to take a bit more than good riding to convince those old boys. Give him a good rub down. He’s got a full lather.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Abigail kicked mud off the heel of her riding boot and as she walked across the manicured lawn she removed her riding helmet and fussed with her hair. Small yellow butterflies stirred above the mock orange hedge and the jasmine smelt sweet and strong. The sun was a white ball high above the roof and she shielded her eyes to look up at her bedroom. To her surprise Spencer stood at the large bay window, his hand hard against his ear and she realized he was on his phone. Her heart skipped a beat as she waved up at him and increased her pace, but if he noticed her, he didn’t show it.
She entered through the kitchen and unzipped her boots. Her cook was at the stove, stirring a heavy pan with a wooden spoon and garlic and onion aromas were abundant. “Not too much garlic, Ruth. We have a function tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And don’t be late tonight. You took too long yesterday.” Abigail didn’t wait for a reply as she strode from the kitchen. As she passed through the dining room, she was pleased to see a fresh bunch of oriental lilies adorning the long, polished table. Reaching for the gold trimmed balustrade she gripped with her toes as her stockinged feet slipped on the marble stairs. At the top of the stairs, she glanced at herself in the antique mirror and recoiled at the reflection. Mascara smudged below her eyes and her limp hair hung like a bedraggled mop. She quietly retreated into the second entrance of the en-suite bathroom and as she smoothed a makeup sponge below her eyes she heard Spencer talking. Inching to the door, she listened.
“No, I can’t come now,” he said in a gruff voice.
“You know why … Because she’s here... I don’t know... Look, she’s out riding;
I’ll make up something when she gets in... I’ll ring when I’m on my way.” There was a long pause and then he said, “You, too babe.”
Abigail’s heart sank and her world commenced a slow spin as her knees weakened. Returning to the china basin, she clung to it for support and reluctantly gazed into the mirror. She hated what she saw. Her eyes were too close together, her lips insipid pink and her freckles were dark blemishes on her milky pale skin. For years she had known of Spencer’s affairs and tried to accept that was who he was. Hell, she had been his mistress once and knew exactly how wonderfully he could treat a woman. But she didn’t want to lose him. Look at me, I can’t be Ex Mrs Mulholland. A tear spilled down her cheek and she flicked it away.
She pulled her shoulders back, ran a comb through her hair, applied a light mist of hair spray and dabbed Kiera Mai perfume onto her wrists. Easing back out the second doorway, she walked along the landing to the bedroom door and entered without pause. Spencer was peering out the bay window with his hands on his hips. He jumped and turned toward her.
“Oh, hello. I didn’t see you ride in.”
“We rode home through the west field.”
He stepped toward her with his palms open, masking his deceit like an expert poker player. She accepted his arms around her and smelt his subtle aftershave but was surprised to hear his thundering heartbeat.
Maybe he isn’t so collected.
“I have some wonderful news to tell you,” she said. “I was hoping we could have a cup of tea together.” For a fleeting moment she thought he might take her up on the offer, but inevitably he pulled away from her.
He held her at arm’s length and she stared into his frosty blue eyes. “I’m sorry, darling, but I can’t.” Releasing his grip he turned to the bay window. “I just had a call from Thomas. He needs me to sign some papers.” And with that comment she knew it was pointless to argue. Thomas was everything to Spencer, business partner, confidant, drinking buddy, and Thomas would cover for him, no matter what the situation.
“But it’s Friday. You never go in on Fridays.”
“I know, but he said it was important. I’m sure I won’t be too long. I’ll be all yours when I get back.”
“I’ll come with you and we’ll have coffee at the club.”
“Don’t be silly. You look frightful. I can’t have you prancing about the club looking like that.”
“I’ll shower,” she said half-heartedly.
He pushed his mobile into his pocket and bent down to kiss her forehead. “Not today, darling. I’ll see you when I get home.”
Moments later, he vanished out the door and she was left alone in the sun drenched room.
Abigail hated every inch of the décor in this room and right now it was even more oppressive. She lay back on the feather doona and stared at the lightshade dangling above her. The hideous creation of hand carved wood and stone was a gift from a tribal elder Spencer met in the Congo. He had insisted the decorator use it as the focal point of the room and every night she stared at it inventing scenarios that would make it mysteriously disappear.
(NOTE: THE HORSES NAME WAS CHANGE IN THE FINAL ROUND OF EDITS)
Want to read the real story? Click here.
Flashback - Mackenzie slices hand
Mackenzie ground a collection of herbs and spices with the mortar and pestle and the delightful aroma made his nose tingle. He began to dice an onion and with an unusual lack of concentration accidently sliced through his palm. The cut was so swift he didn’t know it happened until blood dripped onto the marble counter. He grabbed a tissue but was unable to stop the bleeding. As he roughly bandaged his hand, he glanced at the clock -- ten to seven. Rodney should be home soon.
Two hours later, he sighed as he pushed cold rice grains around his plate. Reluctantly he carried his dirty dish to the sink and turned off the oven. But his heart quickened at the sound of the garage door opening and he busied himself preparing another plate of food and two glasses of wine.
Rodney shuffled through the door looking bedraggled with his tie askew and his normally crisp pressed cotton shirt a torrent of creases. Mackenzie sensed it wasn’t good news and raced over, taking the leather briefcase from Rodney’s hand. “Come on… let’s get some food into you.”
“We lost them.” Rodney sighed.
“Well, they’re fools for not re-signing with you.”
“They’ve gone to Abbot and Wilson.”
It was a sharp slap to the face and Mackenzie gasped. The Wilson, in Abbot & Wilson was Rodney’s ex-wife. His eyes widened. “Did you see her?”
“Yes, she was nasty as usual.”
“What did you do?” Mackenzie pointed to Rodney’s plate. “Go ahead.”
Rodney placed a forkful of paella into his mouth and moaned with delight. “Oh, this is good. I think you’ve finally done it.”
“Do you think? Not too much saffron.”
“No. It’s perfect.” Rodney ate in silence for a while. “Thank you, I needed this.”
“So tell me all about it.”
“There’s not much to tell. Colorado has decided to change agencies and there’s nothing we can do.” He swallowed a large gulp of wine.
Rodney and his ex-wife Amanda had started an advertising agency just over a decade ago. When they divorced, they divided up the clients and Colorado chose to remain with Rodney. It proved to be a devastating blow to Amanda as she had been unable to sustain her business and merged her fledgling agency with one of Rodney’s major competitors, Philip Abbot. Abbot & Wilson became more than business partners and together they made it their mission to pursue Rodney’s lucrative clients. Colorado was on the top of their list.
Mackenzie looked into Rodney’s tired eyes. “Maybe this is a good thing. You’ll have more time for me.”
Rodney’s eyes lingered on Mackenzie’s bandaged hand. He raised his eyebrows. “What happened?”
Mackenzie flexed his hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. Looks worse than it is, you know me and bandages.”
Rodney smiled across the table and then finished his food. “I’m going to have a long hot shower and when I come out we’ll take a look at your hand.”
Want to read the real story? Click here.
Two hours later, he sighed as he pushed cold rice grains around his plate. Reluctantly he carried his dirty dish to the sink and turned off the oven. But his heart quickened at the sound of the garage door opening and he busied himself preparing another plate of food and two glasses of wine.
Rodney shuffled through the door looking bedraggled with his tie askew and his normally crisp pressed cotton shirt a torrent of creases. Mackenzie sensed it wasn’t good news and raced over, taking the leather briefcase from Rodney’s hand. “Come on… let’s get some food into you.”
“We lost them.” Rodney sighed.
“Well, they’re fools for not re-signing with you.”
“They’ve gone to Abbot and Wilson.”
It was a sharp slap to the face and Mackenzie gasped. The Wilson, in Abbot & Wilson was Rodney’s ex-wife. His eyes widened. “Did you see her?”
“Yes, she was nasty as usual.”
“What did you do?” Mackenzie pointed to Rodney’s plate. “Go ahead.”
Rodney placed a forkful of paella into his mouth and moaned with delight. “Oh, this is good. I think you’ve finally done it.”
“Do you think? Not too much saffron.”
“No. It’s perfect.” Rodney ate in silence for a while. “Thank you, I needed this.”
“So tell me all about it.”
“There’s not much to tell. Colorado has decided to change agencies and there’s nothing we can do.” He swallowed a large gulp of wine.
Rodney and his ex-wife Amanda had started an advertising agency just over a decade ago. When they divorced, they divided up the clients and Colorado chose to remain with Rodney. It proved to be a devastating blow to Amanda as she had been unable to sustain her business and merged her fledgling agency with one of Rodney’s major competitors, Philip Abbot. Abbot & Wilson became more than business partners and together they made it their mission to pursue Rodney’s lucrative clients. Colorado was on the top of their list.
Mackenzie looked into Rodney’s tired eyes. “Maybe this is a good thing. You’ll have more time for me.”
Rodney’s eyes lingered on Mackenzie’s bandaged hand. He raised his eyebrows. “What happened?”
Mackenzie flexed his hand. “Oh, it’s nothing. Looks worse than it is, you know me and bandages.”
Rodney smiled across the table and then finished his food. “I’m going to have a long hot shower and when I come out we’ll take a look at your hand.”
Want to read the real story? Click here.
Flashback - Charlie sees his daughter.
Charlie’s windscreen fogged again and for the fourth time he turned on the engine allowing a blast of cold air to clear the mist. The shrill sound of the school bell made him jump and moments later hundreds of children in teal colored school uniforms funneled through the stone gates.
His frustration grew as he observed how similar all the little girls looked; two pony tails tied up with green ribbons, a grey skirt, teal shirt, long white socks and black shoes. But frustration gave way to anger as he considered he might have missed his daughter at his one and only chance to see her on her first day of school. Tears welled in his eyes and he flicked them away as he caught sight of three little girls skipping along the path toward the gate. With a racing heart he strained to see their faces.
And there she was.
He recognized her dimpled cheeks, fuchsia pink lips and long blonde hair. She laughed while skipping along, arm in arm with her
girlfriends. Bursting with pride, his breath caught in his throat as Holly skipped toward him, oblivious to his existence. He prayed he
would remember every aspect of this moment as she passed his car. Craning his neck he watched her in the rear window as she climbed into a sedan three cars behind his. He heard the engine start and shrunk below the window as the car passed. Sitting up in time to recognize his ex-wife’s car ahead of him he grinned like a madman when he eventually drove away.
Later that night, he angle parked his Holden and walked into The China Den. A bell tinkled somewhere in the kitchen and moments
later the chef strolled through the beaded curtain wiping his hands on his fraying apron.
“Hello, Mr Charlie, you early tonight,” said Michael in broken English.
“I’m celebrating Holly’s first day at school.”
“Did you see her?”
“She’s beautiful and so happy. She was skipping.”
“That is good. Did she see you?”
Charlie shook his head. “No.”
Michael averted his eyes. “Maybe next time?”
“Maybe.”
“You want the usual? I not ready yet.”
“The usual. But throw in some extra dim sims.”
“Okay. But will be twenty minute. You wait. Want to buy a beer?”
“Yes, I believe I will.”
Charlie was barely aware of the tacky Chinese jingle playing in the restaurant as he waited for his meal. Sipping his beer he replayed in his mind the vision of his beautiful daughter skipping to him. He imagined her running into his opened arms, calling ‘Daddy’ as she fell into his embrace. He would scoop her up and they would twirl around with joyous laughter, spinning and spinning until the sun set.
“Here you are, Mr Charlie.” Michael interrupted his reverie.
Charlie thanked him and strolled from the small restaurant. After dinner, he placed the leftover food into his nearly empty fridge and cleaned the dishes. He sat down at his study desk and removed his letter kit from the bottom draw, selected a pink page with small white flowers dotted along the left margin and began to write with his favorite pen:
Hello my beautiful Holly, it’s your father here.
I saw you today at your first day at school. You looked so beautiful in your new school uniform. Were your teachers nice? You
looked like you were having fun with your friends. You must write and tell me their names.
I’m so proud of you.
I will love you forever. Please write soon.
Your daddy, Charlie.
He sealed the letter in a pink envelope and wrote Holly’s name on the front. Then reaching for another slip of paper, plain white this time he wrote another letter.
Hello Sue,
Please pass this letter to Holly. I would like her to read it in private.
Thank you, Charlie.
A week later the white envelope returned unopened. ‘Not at this address’ was hand written across the front and he recognized Sue’s rigid cursive. Charlie’s shoulders sagged. He added this envelope to the pile of returned letters, tied a white ribbon around them, drew the bundle onto his lap and sighed.
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His frustration grew as he observed how similar all the little girls looked; two pony tails tied up with green ribbons, a grey skirt, teal shirt, long white socks and black shoes. But frustration gave way to anger as he considered he might have missed his daughter at his one and only chance to see her on her first day of school. Tears welled in his eyes and he flicked them away as he caught sight of three little girls skipping along the path toward the gate. With a racing heart he strained to see their faces.
And there she was.
He recognized her dimpled cheeks, fuchsia pink lips and long blonde hair. She laughed while skipping along, arm in arm with her
girlfriends. Bursting with pride, his breath caught in his throat as Holly skipped toward him, oblivious to his existence. He prayed he
would remember every aspect of this moment as she passed his car. Craning his neck he watched her in the rear window as she climbed into a sedan three cars behind his. He heard the engine start and shrunk below the window as the car passed. Sitting up in time to recognize his ex-wife’s car ahead of him he grinned like a madman when he eventually drove away.
Later that night, he angle parked his Holden and walked into The China Den. A bell tinkled somewhere in the kitchen and moments
later the chef strolled through the beaded curtain wiping his hands on his fraying apron.
“Hello, Mr Charlie, you early tonight,” said Michael in broken English.
“I’m celebrating Holly’s first day at school.”
“Did you see her?”
“She’s beautiful and so happy. She was skipping.”
“That is good. Did she see you?”
Charlie shook his head. “No.”
Michael averted his eyes. “Maybe next time?”
“Maybe.”
“You want the usual? I not ready yet.”
“The usual. But throw in some extra dim sims.”
“Okay. But will be twenty minute. You wait. Want to buy a beer?”
“Yes, I believe I will.”
Charlie was barely aware of the tacky Chinese jingle playing in the restaurant as he waited for his meal. Sipping his beer he replayed in his mind the vision of his beautiful daughter skipping to him. He imagined her running into his opened arms, calling ‘Daddy’ as she fell into his embrace. He would scoop her up and they would twirl around with joyous laughter, spinning and spinning until the sun set.
“Here you are, Mr Charlie.” Michael interrupted his reverie.
Charlie thanked him and strolled from the small restaurant. After dinner, he placed the leftover food into his nearly empty fridge and cleaned the dishes. He sat down at his study desk and removed his letter kit from the bottom draw, selected a pink page with small white flowers dotted along the left margin and began to write with his favorite pen:
Hello my beautiful Holly, it’s your father here.
I saw you today at your first day at school. You looked so beautiful in your new school uniform. Were your teachers nice? You
looked like you were having fun with your friends. You must write and tell me their names.
I’m so proud of you.
I will love you forever. Please write soon.
Your daddy, Charlie.
He sealed the letter in a pink envelope and wrote Holly’s name on the front. Then reaching for another slip of paper, plain white this time he wrote another letter.
Hello Sue,
Please pass this letter to Holly. I would like her to read it in private.
Thank you, Charlie.
A week later the white envelope returned unopened. ‘Not at this address’ was hand written across the front and he recognized Sue’s rigid cursive. Charlie’s shoulders sagged. He added this envelope to the pile of returned letters, tied a white ribbon around them, drew the bundle onto his lap and sighed.
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Flashback - The manicurist.
Helen waved a freshly manicured hand at her the moment she entered the salon and Abigail sat on her regular seat drumming her fingers while she waited. She glanced through the smoky glass window and saw her friend Rachel gazing through the Tiffany & Co window across the street.
Abigail’s view was interrupted when Helen reached for her left hand as she sat opposite. Helen’s high cheekbones gave the impression that she was permanently smiling, but her dark drooping eyelids gave the opposite effect, as if she would impart a shocking secret at any moment.
“How has your week been?” Helen asked.
Abigail’s gaze fixed on Helen’s crooked teeth as she spoke and for the umpteenth time wondered why she never fixed them.
“Hectic as usual,” Abigail said. “I’ve had horrific dramas. I’m still waiting for my dress to arrive and I haven’t even matched my jewelry with it. I’m afraid I’ll be running around the day before the polo tournament choosing my shoes. It’s a nightmare.” Every year was the same and each time she vowed never to go back to that boutique, however, she grudgingly admitted they were the best in town. She couldn’t have anyone learning that she switched boutiques.
“Why don’t you go somewhere else?” Helen said, as if reading her thoughts.
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re the best.”
A look of longing crept into Helen’s drooping eyes and her nail filing grew more vigorous.
Abigail changed subjects. “I just saw Rachel Hindermann looking in Tiffany’s.”
“Oh, she was in here earlier. Maybe she’s looking for something for her new man.” Helen raised an eyebrow.
Abigail leaned forward. “Really. Tell me!” If there was one thing Helen was good at, other than manicures, it was supplying gossip. Abigail couldn’t decide if she did it blithely or if she enjoyed the consequences of spreading gossip. Either way it always paid to listen.
Helen cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “She told me they’ve been to dinner several times and he spoils her with weird
trinkets.”
“Trinkets? What kind of trinkets?”
“She said it was odd at first, silly little things like a crystal frog and a ceramic clam with a black pearl necklace inside. Oh, and he gave her a hideous wooden necklace that he claimed was blessed with powers from some jungle tribesman. She wore it today. It was dreadful.”
Abigail’s senses dulled and her heart crushed as she shut out Helens rambling. She slowly turned to peer out the window again, hoping to see Rachel, but she was gone. The sun reflected off the jeweler's window and burned a bright stripe down her field of vision that flashed each time she closed her eyes.
Abigail knew the necklace Helen was talking about. Spencer had given it to her as a present upon his return from Tibet. She’d trembled with anger as she examined it. His travels had taken him through six airports with numerous duty free shops including a two day stopover in Dubai, and his only gift to her was a grotesque wooden necklace with dreadful white markings on it. They had a heated argument and she tossed it into the waste bucket. He completely avoided her for three days after that fight and she never saw the necklace again. She’d assumed it had been thrown out with the trash.
The smell of acetate thrust her back to the beauty salon. Helen’s bulbous eyes stared at her.
“What?” Abigail spat at her.
“I was asking how you were going with Silver. I can’t wait to hear what your husband says when you tell him your plans.”
“Yeah, it’ll be a blast.”
“That’s right. You stick to your guns.”
“I may do just that.”
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Abigail’s view was interrupted when Helen reached for her left hand as she sat opposite. Helen’s high cheekbones gave the impression that she was permanently smiling, but her dark drooping eyelids gave the opposite effect, as if she would impart a shocking secret at any moment.
“How has your week been?” Helen asked.
Abigail’s gaze fixed on Helen’s crooked teeth as she spoke and for the umpteenth time wondered why she never fixed them.
“Hectic as usual,” Abigail said. “I’ve had horrific dramas. I’m still waiting for my dress to arrive and I haven’t even matched my jewelry with it. I’m afraid I’ll be running around the day before the polo tournament choosing my shoes. It’s a nightmare.” Every year was the same and each time she vowed never to go back to that boutique, however, she grudgingly admitted they were the best in town. She couldn’t have anyone learning that she switched boutiques.
“Why don’t you go somewhere else?” Helen said, as if reading her thoughts.
“Don’t be ridiculous. They’re the best.”
A look of longing crept into Helen’s drooping eyes and her nail filing grew more vigorous.
Abigail changed subjects. “I just saw Rachel Hindermann looking in Tiffany’s.”
“Oh, she was in here earlier. Maybe she’s looking for something for her new man.” Helen raised an eyebrow.
Abigail leaned forward. “Really. Tell me!” If there was one thing Helen was good at, other than manicures, it was supplying gossip. Abigail couldn’t decide if she did it blithely or if she enjoyed the consequences of spreading gossip. Either way it always paid to listen.
Helen cleared her throat and lowered her voice. “She told me they’ve been to dinner several times and he spoils her with weird
trinkets.”
“Trinkets? What kind of trinkets?”
“She said it was odd at first, silly little things like a crystal frog and a ceramic clam with a black pearl necklace inside. Oh, and he gave her a hideous wooden necklace that he claimed was blessed with powers from some jungle tribesman. She wore it today. It was dreadful.”
Abigail’s senses dulled and her heart crushed as she shut out Helens rambling. She slowly turned to peer out the window again, hoping to see Rachel, but she was gone. The sun reflected off the jeweler's window and burned a bright stripe down her field of vision that flashed each time she closed her eyes.
Abigail knew the necklace Helen was talking about. Spencer had given it to her as a present upon his return from Tibet. She’d trembled with anger as she examined it. His travels had taken him through six airports with numerous duty free shops including a two day stopover in Dubai, and his only gift to her was a grotesque wooden necklace with dreadful white markings on it. They had a heated argument and she tossed it into the waste bucket. He completely avoided her for three days after that fight and she never saw the necklace again. She’d assumed it had been thrown out with the trash.
The smell of acetate thrust her back to the beauty salon. Helen’s bulbous eyes stared at her.
“What?” Abigail spat at her.
“I was asking how you were going with Silver. I can’t wait to hear what your husband says when you tell him your plans.”
“Yeah, it’ll be a blast.”
“That’s right. You stick to your guns.”
“I may do just that.”
Want to read the real story? Click here.
Lost in Kakadu - Survival, grief, endurance and undying love - available now.
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