How To Trap a Parent. Joan Kilby
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the seat of an ancient green brocade armchair and perched on the edge. She held her elbows in close to her sides so they wouldn’t touch the stained fabric and nibbled her toast. “How could Aunt Esther live like this?”
Jane picked up a framed photo of her aunt at her potter’s wheel. Esther’s dark hair was streaked lightly with gray and pulled back in a long ponytail. Her jeans and plaid shirt were spattered, her thin face set in concentration as her long fingers shaped the spinning cylinder of clay. “She focused more on her work than on housekeeping, that’s for sure. But she was an important potter. One of her pieces is in the National Gallery.”
“I just don’t get why she collected so much stuff.”
“Tell me about it,” Jane sighed. “I hardly know where to start.” She glanced at her watch. “Are you almost finished? Your father will arrive any minute.”
“I’m still eating. I just put an egg on to boil.”
“That’s okay. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
Mary Kate bit her lip. “Do I have to see him?”
“I thought you wanted to.” Jane pushed her daughter’s fringe back to peer into Mary Kate’s eyes. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” Mary Kate turned her face away. “But I—”
The cell phone clipped to Jane’s hip pocket chimed, and she reached for it. “Excuse me, honey.
“Otto.” He was a Melbourne journalist she’d contacted to publicize the premiere. Jane went into her aunt’s study and sat at the rolltop desk where she’d temporarily set up her office. “I’m scheduling interviews with the leads of Swept Away—Rafe Baldwyn and Mia MacDonald. Let me find my diary and I’ll tell you what times are available.”
A doorbell sounded.
“Otto, I’ll call you back.” Jane hurried out to open the door and passed through the lounge room in time to see Mary Kate hurrying toward the kitchen. “Hey, where are you going? He’s not going to bite you. Come back here.”
“In a minute.” Mary Kate ducked through the door.
What was wrong with that girl? Jane walked the dark red carpet runner covering the scratched floorboards of the hall. She brushed back her hair, smoothed down her skirt and opened the door. Cole stood on the veranda, a folded clipboard in hand. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his light brown suit immaculate, his expression politely neutral. He appeared so smooth and composed that Jane couldn’t contain the impulse to ruffle his feathers.
“You look like a real estate agent from central casting.” She jammed her hands on her hips and eyed him up and down. “If I was a director, I’d be looking for the flaw that shows you’re human.”
“If I have flaws, I take care to hide them,” Cole said evenly.
“Isn’t that just like a man?” And what a man. Squashing that thought, Jane said, “Come in.”
CHAPTER TWO
COLE FOLLOWED Jane down the hall to the lounge room. He could almost smell his mother’s Sunday roast cooking and hear his dog Toby’s tail thump in greeting.
His family had kept chickens, a few sheep and a couple of horses. His father had worked at the real estate agency; his mother had stayed home and looked after the animals and the vegetable garden. He and Joey had roamed freely for miles around through woods and fields on horseback. With the nostalgia came an acute sense of loss, for those long-ago days and for what he might have done with the farm as an adult.
“You can hardly see the house for the contents, but I’m gradually clearing it out,” Jane said.
On closer inspection Cole observed the dingy paintwork and chipped plaster. On the high ceiling a water stain ran from one corner to the pressed-tin rose in the center. It made him sad and angry to see the house his great-grandfather had built in such poor condition. Keeping his expression impassive, he made a note on his clipboard.
“Esther allowed the house to get rundown.” Jane seemed to know what he was thinking.
“It just needs a little TLC,” Cole said, running a hand along the polished marble mantelpiece covered in patches of dust. “You haven’t changed your mind about selling? You might like Red Hill. It’s more sophisticated than it was in the old days.”
“My work is in the city,” Jane said. “And Mary Kate is looking forward to starting high school there next month and making new friends.”
Cole glanced toward the kitchen where he could smell toast. “Where is Mary Kate?”
“She went to check on her egg. She’s still having breakfast.” Jane led the way into the large country kitchen filled with half-packed boxes of Esther’s dishes. The back door was open and Mary Kate was gone. “I guess she stepped out for a minute. I suggested earlier that she take a walk down to the creek. She probably decided to do it before you rang the doorbell.”
“Of course.” Cole studied Jane’s averted face. Why did he have the feeling she was hiding something? Why would Mary Kate go out and leave a pot bubbling away on the stove? Unless she didn’t want to see him? He didn’t like to think Jane would try to turn his daughter against him and yet…where was the girl? “Did she know I was coming?”
“Yes.” Jane moved past him toward the staircase that rose from the junction of the lounge room and the study. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon. Come, I’ll show you the rest of the house.”
Cole climbed the narrow staircase to the second floor. The worn carpet, the light falling across the banister from the window at the end of the hall, flashed him back to a winter afternoon thirteen years ago. Esther had gone to Melbourne to pick up supplies for her glazes. Jane and Cole had been out riding and had come home wet and muddy. Jane had run upstairs to change.
She was waiting for him now, at the top of the stairs, her arms crossed over her stomach. Their eyes met and hers skittered away, as if she knew the direction his thoughts had taken. Cole pushed his memories to the back of his mind where they belonged.
“This is the main bedroom, as you know.” She opened the door on a room crammed with more of Esther’s bric-a-brac. Jane’s suitcase sat atop a cedar chest at the foot of the bed and spilled clothes onto a dark red coverlet. Hastily she stuffed bras and panties inside the case and shut the lid.
Cole left the bedroom after a brief inspection and headed next door to the bathroom. “How’s the plumbing holding up?” As if on cue, the hot-water pipe started knocking.
“It’s a bit dodgy,” Jane admitted. “There’s an ominous gurgle when you flush the toilet as if it’s deciding whether to go down or up.” She paused. “Do you have to mention all this to prospective buyers?”
Cole didn’t answer right away; he was looking around. The avocado-green sink, toilet and bathtub, as well as the pink curtains and bath mat, had never been updated. Cole remembered peering into that speckled mirror to see if his amazing experience with Jane had changed him visibly. The wonder had been there in his eyes, but years later the scars were all on the inside.
“It’s against the code of conduct for real estate agents to cover up faults in a house,” Cole said, making a note on his clipboard.
He stopped in the doorway of the next bedroom and went silent. His room. Later, Jane’s room. Now their daughter’s things were scattered everywhere. Faded floral curtains moved in the breeze from the open window. An ancient rag rug in pink, yellow and pale blue softened the wooden floor, and a chipped white-painted dresser sat to one side. Movie posters—a decade old— still decorated the pale lavender walls. Casablanca, Flashdance, Mad Max .
There was the bed. High, single, virginal in white paint and a floral coverlet that matched the curtains.
Well, not quite virginal.
That