A Place to Remember Read online

  A PLACE TO REMEMBER

  Jenn J. McLeod

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  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

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  About A Place To Remember

  A man loses five years of his life. Two women are desperate for him to remember.

  Running away for the second time in her life, twenty-seven-year old Ava believes the cook’s job at a country B&B is perfect, until she meets the owner’s son, John Tate. The young fifth-generation grazier is a beguiling blend of both man, boy and a terrible flirt. With their connection immediate and intense, they begin a clandestine affair right under the noses of John’s formidable parents.

  Thirty years later, Ava returns to Candlebark Creek with her daughter, Nina, who is determined to meet her mother's lost love for herself. While struggling to find her own place in the world, Nina discovers an urban myth about a love-struck man, a forgotten engagement ring, and a dinner reservation back in the eighties. Now she must decide if revealing the truth will hurt more than it heals…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About A Place To Remember

  Dedication

  Prologue: Memories and Packages

  THE PEARL RING: Candlebark Creek, 1985–6

  Chapter 1: Young Ava

  Chapter 2: Young John

  Chapter 3: Katie-from-next-door

  Chapter 4: New Cooks

  Chapter 5: Duelling Scones

  Chapter 6: List-Making Monsters

  Chapter 7: Too Close to Midnight

  Chapter 8: Sorries

  Chapter 9: Forbidden Fruits

  Chapter 10: Cars and Scars

  Chapter 11: Surprises

  Chapter 12: Succession Planning

  Chapter 13: Brides, Beer and Birthdays

  Chapter 14: Mad, Passionate… Ludicrous!

  Chapter 15: Just Friends

  Chapter 16: Heirlooms and Ancestors

  Chapter 17: Love and Other Bruises

  Chapter 18: Cookie Cutters

  Chapter 19: Leaving Ivy-May

  Chapter 20: Rescued

  THE PORTRAIT: Candlebark Creek, 2015

  Chapter 21: Going Back

  Chapter 22: Waiting

  Chapter 23: Birdbrains and Bar Rooms

  Chapter 24: Moon over Moo-tel

  Chapter 25: Brain Clutter

  Chapter 26: Iron Pot Hill Farmstay Retreat

  Chapter 27: Time To Catch Up

  Chapter 28: Kodak Moments

  Chapter 29: Tables, Teacups and Scones

  Chapter 30: The Sitting

  Chapter 31: Ava Marchette

  Chapter 32: It’s a Date

  Chapter 33: First Loves

  Chapter 34: Lavender Kisses

  Chapter 35: Leaving

  THE PANNA COTTA: 2015

  Chapter 36: Project Portrait

  Chapter 37: Prairie Oysters

  Chapter 38: Waxing and Waning

  Chapter 39: If Wishes Were Horses

  Chapter 40: Light Pollution

  Chapter 41: Night Lights

  Chapter 42: Families

  Chapter 43: Afternoon Teas

  Chapter 44: Sage Advice

  Chapter 45: Hot Heifers

  Chapter 46: Beer O’Clock

  Chapter 47: Karaoke and Keith Urban

  Chapter 48: Confessions

  Chapter 49: Hearts

  Chapter 50: Dates

  Chapter 51: Sons and Scones

  Chapter 52: Urban Myths

  Chapter 53: Secrets, Lies and Promises

  Chapter 54: Romantics

  Chapter 55: Deliveries and Packages

  Chapter 56: Dirty Money

  Chapter 57: Notes and Funerals

  Chapter 58: Portraits, Pearl Rings and Panna Cottas

  Chapter 59: Reboot, Force Quit, Restart

  Chapter 60: The Place of Lies and Lost Memories

  Chapter 61: Secrets and Lies

  Chapter 62: Ava and John

  Chapter 63: Choices – Three Months Later

  Chapter 64: 86,400 Seconds

  Chapter 65: Dragonflies

  Author Note

  Acknowledgements

  About Jenn J. McLeod

  An Invitation from the Publisher

  Copyright

  To Rosie de Courcy – for believing in me and in my story.

  To Tess Woods – for your friendship, generosity, and support.

  To The J. – for always being there.

  Prologue

  Memories and Packages

  Ava Marchette was no longer the doyenne of dough and director of an award-winning bakery franchise operation. This morning, with her mother’s hair hanging loose, the usual drive in her eyes replaced with a blend of curiosity and concern, Nina was reminded that the woman who’d always been there for her children, now faced an unwinnable battle with the condition time-stamping her heart.word mac 2011 how to strip out direct styling

  Lost in the view outside her hospital-room window, and still in her tailored slacks and shirt – no sign of the requisite paper robe and disposable slippers – it was hard to believe anything was wrong.

  ‘Hey, Mum, the nurse said you were still waiting.’

  ‘Nina, darling, what are you doing here?’

  Her mother’s hand touched both sides of the hair above her ears, but rather than smoothing the bun she ordinarily secured from morning until night with assorted hair clips and bobby pins, Ava’s fingers snagged in the fine silver-grey tendrils falling softly around her tired face. The tangle forced a rare expletive to slip from her mouth, and Nina saw the once feisty businesswoman. Ava did not wait well.

  ‘And what have you got there, Nina?’ Her gaze shifted to the big red and blue nylon bag.

  ‘I was hoping you could tell me.’ Nina propped it against the wall before leaning down to peck Ava’s cheek. ‘When I called by your villa, Mrs Hense told me she’d found a package at your door.’

  ‘Mrs Nosy Neighbour found it at my door? Surprise, surprise! I suppose she had a good look?’

  Nina stopped ferreting in her handbag. ‘I certainly did.’

  ‘You opened a parcel addressed to me?’

  ‘It’s a brown-paper package with a chook-scratched address. I had to check. Porn is the only thing I know gets wrapped in brown paper.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, I didn’t think the contents would be so… so personal. The corner was already torn. Not hard to see it was a painting.’

  ‘Ah, yes!’ Ava forced a smile and tried to steady her voice. ‘The portrait.’

  ‘So, you can explain it?’ Nina asked.

  ‘Of course!’ Several explanations came to mind. If only panic hadn’t pricked holes in every thought balloon that popped into Ava’s head. The truth, or some of it, was usually the best option. ‘I sat for it, darling.’

  ‘Why? You don’t even like having your photo taken.’

  Ava slapped at the air. ‘You’re over-thinking, Nina. I read recently a portrait is an old person’s selfie and the portrait painter a dying breed.’

  ‘What’s with the “old”, Mum? You’re only fifty-eight.’

  ‘This silly heart of mine makes me feel older and a little fragile some days.’

  ‘I understand that, but not this portrait idea.’

  ‘You know the Bark Hut Bakery supports the arts. I don’t see why you might think me sitting for an artist strange.’

  ‘What about when this is the end result?’

  When Nina released the final bit of bubble-wrap, every reasonable explanation Ava might have offered her daughter whooshed out on a single exclamation. ‘Oh!’

  ‘Not quite as colourful as
Miriam’s reaction, Mum.’

  ‘You showed her?’

  ‘She was in the car. I dropped her at the office and came straight here. I couldn’t wait. Family trait, I guess,’ Nina quipped.

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Tell me what you see, Mum.’ Nina stood back to appraise the picture. ‘Even Miriam thinks it looks more like me than you and, well, I wasn’t sure what to say. The note attached didn’t help.’

  ‘There’s a note?’

  ‘I’m sorry, but it kind of fell out.’ Nina fished the slip of paper from the side pocket of her trousers. She handed it to her mother. ‘It reads, “When you didn’t come back I had to finish you from memory.”’

  ‘From memory?’ Ava pressed the note against her chest, tears dampening both eyes. ‘It wasn’t my imagination. There was something. He remembers.’

  ‘Who, Mum?’ Nina grabbed the box and handed her mother two tissues. ‘Talk to me. Who remembers? What’s upsetting you? Do you need a doctor?’

  ‘Nina, please, I’m fine.’

  ‘No, you’re not, you’re crying.’ Nina sounded both surprised and a little accusatory. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, this is… It’s all…’ Ava dabbed her eyes as she repositioned herself in the chair and let the note rest on her lap ‘… a little unexpected.’

  ‘So, Mum, can you explain this to me?’

  Could she, enough to satisfy a worried daughter? Did it have to be the truth? Or did she lie to protect the precious connection between mother and child, as Marjorie Tate had done?

  Ava relented. ‘All right, Nina. I’ll tell you what I can.’ First, she needed to clear a path in her mind to the past, the one she’d buried in a distant corner and sown over with happier memories to grow in their place. ‘I waited for a miracle once and I… ’

  ‘And what?’ Nina perched on the edge of the visitor’s chair. ‘Mum, what are you thinking? Where are you?’

  ‘I’m twenty-seven again, darling.’ Ava wished for the second time in as many months that that was possible.

  ‘The note says he painted you from memory, but how can that be? I mean, look at you.’ Both women turned towards the framed work. ‘Was it meant to be an abstract?’

  Ava had no words. In the painting she was both young and old, a skilful fusion of then and now, of wayward red curls and blue eyes. But those eyes seemed dreamy and distracted, not so much focused on the artist but on the space behind him. Maybe Ava had been looking back thirty years. Perhaps the artist had unknowingly done the same, which was why he’d painted her in that way. The way Ava Marchette had looked three decades ago.

  THE PEARL RING

  Candlebark Creek, 1985–6

  Chapter 1

  Young Ava

  The massive slab of varnished wood was the biggest tabletop twenty-seven-year-old Ava had ever seen. Still, she almost doubted it could hide the nervous jig in her legs that both hands pressing firmly on failed to stop. She hoped the folder’s contents would be enough to convince the lady of the house that she was perfect for the position.

  ‘I did say on the telephone that the role is a varied one and not all cookery and not only when we have guests staying. No one on a property like Ivy-May can afford to be picky or precious about their jobs.’ It was fifteen minutes into the interview and the woman’s expression had yet to shift into anything close to a smile. ‘Your time off is your own, but we all do our share.’

  Marjorie Tate paused before slowly rolling up her sleeves, as if driving home the point. The action offered Ava a glimpse of hardworking hands: stubby and tanned with a simple gold wedding band and bitten-down nails. Somewhere around forty or forty-five, the B-and-B operator wasn’t old, just plain, as though all her effort went into something other than herself.

  ‘I do consider myself versatile, Mrs Tate, and I’m always keen to learn new things. I’d also have little need for days off in a town like Candlebark Creek. There aren’t many places to go or things to do.’

  For that careless statement Ava got a raised eyebrow and a minute of the clock ticking above the stove.

  ‘You seem young to have had so many jobs, although you have provided an impressive CV and an extensive portfolio of dishes.’

  ‘Thirteen years in the workforce.’ Ava sat straight and proud. ‘The last eleven in hospitality.’ She could see the woman mentally subtracting eleven from twenty-seven. ‘And I was never fired from a job,’ she added, sounding a little too enthusiastic. ‘Some were set contracts, some seasonal. Hospitality can be like that.’

  ‘Ivy-May B-and-B might be small and out of the way, but I’m aware of the industry’s many facets.’ Marjorie Tate flicked through the plastic sleeves of the folder. She stopped again on the résumé at the front. ‘You have no school certificate listed.’

  ‘I left school when I turned fifteen.’

  ‘Before exams?’ Another raised eyebrow, another flick through the folder’s many photographs.

  Never before had Ava’s lack of formal qualifications been an issue. Hands-on experience was what landed you a kitchen job, and every role, from waiting tables to making desserts, had added to Ava’s expertise and skills. As confident as she was about her abilities, she still sat with her hands clasped between her knees, fingers crossed.

  ‘Our son finished high school a couple of years ago and did well. John’s a bit of a dreamer, although there’s no doubting his passion for the land.’ The grazier’s wife with the moon-shaped face – taut, shiny skin, rosy cheeks – reminded Ava of a wooden babushka doll, with its rotund face and multiple hidden layers. The unexpected softness in her voice when she’d spoken her son’s name revealed one. ‘Naturally, he was keen to finish studying early to work with his father. John’s very capable and quite mature for his age. Children in these parts tend to grow up quickly,’ she added. ‘No choice out here. Operating heavy machinery and working bulls requires a sensible head on robust shoulders. But as much as the property had needed more hands at the time I insisted John stay on at school.’ She peered over the top of thick black spectacle frames. ‘The value of a proper education should not be underestimated. Dreams are more achievable with a thorough education, and it shows discipline. Smart employers insist on such qualities.’

  Ava nodded, forcing a smile. Was the woman telling her she was no longer a suitable candidate? Should she try speaking to her feminine side and explain what had happened to drive her from the city to hide in an out-of-the-way country town? Marjorie Tate was more likely to find fault because Ava had allowed herself to be put in such a position in the first place. Unfortunately, Zac had not come with a warning plastered on his forehead. At least he couldn’t find her here and affect her employment chances.

  Could he?

  ‘I said, you must have a dream, Ava.’ Marjorie Tate stared.

  ‘Me? A dream? I, umm…’ Gosh, what was she supposed to say?

  ‘Yes, a dream. Something other than cook and Jill-of-all-trades on an out-of-the-way property like ours.’

  Never in all her job applications had she ever been asked such a thing. Why were her dreams important, unless it was to demonstrate ambition in lieu of education? She decided to offer a list. ‘Yes, I have dreams. Lots of them. I want to study cooking overseas, work in a French patisserie, harvest Italian olives and prepare high teas in London. And that’s just for starters.’

  Marjorie Tate’s laugh was a lot like she looked – jaded. ‘Grand plans indeed.’

  Had Ava warmed to the woman in the slightest she might have told her about Marco’s dream to show his daughter his hometown in Italy, but her last image of her father – pinning the dragonfly brooch to her collar, shoving a suitcase into seventeen-year-old Ava’s hand then shooing her from the house – still brought tears to her eyes. That first night, crying herself to sleep on her aunt’s sofa, was the moment Ava had stopped being a teenager. No choice for her either if she was to make her dad proud and achieve all he’d hoped for her. She’d had to grow up fast, too.

  Having examined ev
ery photograph for a second time, Mrs Tate was reading the last of several handwritten testimonials when the fly-screen door at the far end of the kitchen annexe creaked and a man burst into the room. He whistled his way to the refrigerator and flung open the door. Then he swung around, kicked it shut, and stopped dead with a green apple in his hand, about to take a bite.

  He stared at Ava with the biggest, most beautiful brown eyes. His face was suntanned or perhaps just dusty, his hairline already receding, and his scruffy curls the colour of crisp shortbread. ‘Oops!’

  ‘My son,’ the woman said. ‘John.’

  ‘Apple!’ He raised the fruit in one hand. ‘Can I tempt you?’

  ‘No, thanks,’ Ava replied.

  ‘You know what they say about an apple a day?’

  ‘Keeps the doctor away?’ she offered meekly.

  ‘Keeps anyone away if thrown hard enough.’

  His wink and wide smile made Ava want to laugh, but in keeping with Marjorie Tate’s interviewing technique she quashed the urge and hid the grin behind a hand.

  ‘John, we have our first replacement cook to trial.’

  Elation lifted Ava’s spirits, but ‘first’ and ‘trial’ soon wiped it away. Were the words a warning? If she didn’t perform to Marjorie Tate’s exacting standards were cooks two, three and four waiting in the wings?

  ‘The job comes with a modest weekly salary, plus room and board. Not quite Paris, but before Tuscany or London calls we can use your experience here, at Ivy-May.’ The woman pinched back a smile. Maybe she wasn’t going to be a bad boss after all. ‘When can you start?’

  ‘Straight away.’

  As Ava reminded herself that a trial job was better than no job at all, she considered the good-looking young man with the mischievous glint in his eyes. He was the stocky type who wore dust and denim the way some chefs wore arrogance. He straddled a chair at the end of the table to study her, head cocked to one side.

  ‘John, I assume you’ve done clearing out Quentin’s things from the cook’s cabin, as I asked three days ago?’

  ‘Too easy, Mum,’ he replied, with a grin. ‘All ready to go.’