A Father At Last by Julie Mac Page B

woken, happier than she’d been for years. She heard the shower going, and planned to surprise him by joining him in there. But first, she gathered up their discarded clothes from the floor.

    That’s when reality crashed home. She picked up his jeans, and a small plastic snap-lock bag holding about half a teaspoon of sugar‐like white crystals fell from the pocket.

    She stared at the bag, sickened to the core. Quickly, she stuffed it back into the pocket, dressed and left his apartment.

    Now, as she stood encircled by his arms in the quiet stillness at the edge of the bush, the memory of that evil little plastic bag of crystals was a timely reminder. Ben was a law-breaker. She could never inhabit his world, just as much as he could never inhabit hers and Dylan’s.

    She eased back from his embrace—although to do so felt a bit like ripping out a piece of her heart.

    She raised her eyes to his. “We need to move on, Ben.”

    “We do,” he agreed, dropping his arms from around her. “But first…” He was studying her eyes and frowning a little. “That…stuff you’ve got round your eyes is smudged.”

    She couldn’t help smiling; men never seemed to get to grips with the intricacies of eyeliner and mascara. She fished around in her shoulder bag for a little mirror, licked a finger to remove the worst of the smudges, completed the tidy up with a tissue and added a fresh coat of mascara.

    “Better?” she asked, looking up at him and sending her eyelids into a deliberate flutter.

    “Much.” He grinned and took her hand.

    Her tension had eased. They made small talk as they followed the path through the bush along the creek, until they came to a natural rocky waterfall where the creek dropped in level by about a metre. They stood on the viewing platform and admired a lazy eel swimming just under the surface of the water in the pool below the waterfall.

    Then they headed back up towards the homestead, through a small grove of olives and past stands of big old trees in the park‐like grounds.

    The path skirted the side of the house on the way to the café, far enough away to ensure the occupants’ privacy, but close enough for Kelly to see the place had a relaxed, homely look to it. She especially loved the all‐around verandas, draped in purple wisteria.

    “Nice, isn’t it?” she commented. “You could imagine a family with lots of kids in a A Father at Last
    house like this.”

    “I read somewhere that the same family have owned it for thirty years or so,” said Ben. “They brought up their children here, but now the kids have grown and left, the owners have converted it to a bed and breakfast.”

    “Makes sense.” She thought again of her parents and their dream, back in the good days.

    “If things had been different, if Mum was still alive, if Dad hadn’t got himself into trouble, they could have had a place like this, with lawns and space and an income when they got a bit older.”

    She turned to face him. “Even after he’d been in prison, if Mum had still been alive…or even after she died, he could have…” She stopped, and wondered where on earth that thought had come from. After that last time she’d seen him, at her mother’s funeral, she hadn’t cared or even thought about what her father might do next.

    Ben said nothing, but the gentle squeeze of his hand around hers told her he understood.

    They walked on, past a big vegetable garden and implement sheds and back to the car park and café, which was like a much smaller mirror image of the house, with verandas on the front and back.

    On the phone this morning, Ben had suggested a walk in the gardens, followed by a meal in the café. She’d agreed then; half an hour or so ago, down there on the bush track, she’d decided there was no way she was going to sit at a table with him and share a meal.

    Now, in the cool of the evening, with the fragrance of flowers heavy in the air and his calm presence by her side,