The Patterson Girls (7 page)

For the next few hundred metres, Abigail tried to come up with a plausible story, or better yet, a way to evade the situation entirely. She didn't want to lie outright but nor did she want to admit her failure. She couldn't bear to see the look on her sisters' faces—or worse, Dad's face—when she told them she'd been fired from her dream job. Her family had been so proud when she'd scored the gig as one of the youngest violinists ever to join the prestigious orchestra, and they'd be so disappointed if they found out the truth.

Hadn't they suffered enough disappointment lately?

‘Crazy old bat.' It was the first thing Madeleine had said since they'd left the motel and it jolted Abigail from her thoughts. She looked up to see they were approaching an old, run-down fibro cottage, the garden (if you could call it that) overrun with purple flowers, chipped outdoor ornaments and cats.

Abigail jogged after Madeleine, glancing back at the house just in time to see an old woman glaring at them from the middle of her overgrown garden. Wearing a black skirt that brushed the ground, a dull grey saggy jumper—in this weather!—and a black scarf wrapped around her head, she looked like some kind of witch. As a child, Abigail had heard rumours about the woman. The centre of many a children's horror story, she was nicknamed ‘Wacky Wanda' and the local schoolkids estimated her to be around one hundred years old—though no one knew her real name or age. Word had it she only ever ventured into the main street to buy cigarettes and the weekend paper. Lord knew where she bought other supplies, such as food.

But Abigail had always felt a little sorry for the old woman. Her sisters might drive her insane sometimes but she couldn't imagine what it would be like if she didn't have
any
of them. She lifted her hand and waved, calling out ‘Merry Christmas' as she did so.

The woman's eyes narrowed and then she made a weird hissing noise, before mumbling something and turning away in apparent disgust. Although Abigail couldn't make out the words, whatever it was, it was obviously unpleasant. Her sympathy evaporated.
I was only trying to be nice.
A weird shiver scuttled down her spine like she'd just run through a spider's web.

She felt Madeleine's hand close around her arm as she urged her on. ‘Come along, keep running.'

‘Did you hear what she said?' Abigail asked.

‘Fuck knows. She probably thought we were trespassing. I'm sure she's perfectly harmless though.'

Lucinda woke to the buzzing of her phone. She rolled over groggily and reached for it. Despite only having two glasses of wine last night, her head harboured the mother of all hangovers. Probably more the emotional stress of yesterday than the alcohol.

Smiling at the caller ID, she snuggled back into the pillows and pressed Accept. ‘Hey gorgeous.'

‘Babe.' Joe's incredibly sexy, deep voice seeped into her bones, acting like an instant pain relief. Things may have been a little tense between them lately but absence always made the heart grow fonder. ‘Thought I'd get a quick call in before I start my shift. How was yesterday?'

‘Draining,' she admitted. ‘Dad's being really quiet and everyone's walking on eggshells. I think it's going to be a long week.'

‘I'm sorry I can't be there.'

‘It's fine. We both decided that it was for the best. Your mum will forgive you not attending Christmas if the reason is work, but if it's because you're spending it with
my
family instead, she'll probably excommunicate us.'

He laughed. ‘Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.'

But Lucinda knew he didn't mean it. Although Joe's mother had been dropping less than subtle hints that it was time he joined her other (five) children in providing her with grandchildren, he still adored her. He could say things like that but if Lucinda dared utter one mildly negative word about his
mamma
, she'd be given the silent treatment for a week.

‘Dad has decided to sell the motel,' she said, not wanting to think about their failure to procreate.

‘Really?' Joe was momentarily nonplussed. Then, ‘I guess that makes sense. Must be a lot of work on his own. How do you feel about that?'

‘It's weird to think of anyone else owning it but at the same time, I see where he's coming from. And I'm worried about him. I think we all are. He seems really sad. Hopefully not having the pressure of the motel will help.'

‘His wife just died, of course he's sad.'

‘I know.' Lucinda thought about that a moment. ‘Maybe we expected too much of him. It was always going to be strange coming back here without Mum but I didn't think it would be this weird. I don't know how we're supposed to get through Christmas.'

‘Will Aunt Mags be coming?'

‘Yes.' Immediate relief rushed through her at the thought of Dad's eccentric older sister, Margaret—more affectionately known as Mags. She lived in a retirement home in Port Augusta, where by all accounts she was having the time of her life.

‘Well, there you go,' Joe said, as if he'd just solved the problem of world peace. ‘No one can be morose when Mags is around. She'll get you through it. What are you going to do today?'

‘Dad asked us to help him start sort through the house, mostly Mum's things, so I'm going to try to get everyone focused on that. Lord knows I probably won't be able to rouse Abigail or Madeleine till early afternoon. Even without jet lag into the equation they've never been early risers. We also need to go shopping—there's nothing in the house and I guess I'll be organising Christmas lunch.' She sighed again, already mentally writing a to-do list. ‘I saw Mitch McDonald last night and he reckoned Dad might be struggling a bit with the motel.'

‘Charlie's old friend?' Joe asked.

‘One and the same.'

‘Maybe he's got a point. And maybe your dad knows, otherwise he wouldn't be considering selling,' he said, ever the voice of reason.

‘I suppose,' Lucinda mused, ‘but I also talked to Mrs Sampson and although she was less forthcoming, reading between the lines, I'm pretty sure she's just as tired and overworked as Dad.'

‘You've got your hands full then. No time for missing your poor hardworking beloved husband.'

Lucinda laughed. ‘I'll miss you all right, but don't pretend you're all hard done by. We all know nothing gives you more joy than blowing things up.'

‘What can I say? I like excitement. But seriously, babe, you look after yourself. Try to have fun with your sisters and Brian. It's important for you all to be together at a time like this. Try and relax, okay?'

Lucinda suddenly choked up. She knew what he really meant. He wanted her to put aside her ‘obsession'—he'd actually called it that last week in a moment of anger—with having a baby and concentrate on something else for a bit. Maybe she could do if it wasn't for his mother and his baby-machine sisters-in-law. Then again, probably not. She wanted nothing more than to have babies, to start a family with Joe like the one her parents had happily made together.

‘I'll try,' she promised, wanting to end the conversation before she fell apart. ‘You have a good day.'

‘Will do. Love ya, babe.'

‘Love you, too.'

Not sure whether she felt better or worse after her conversation with Joe, but thoroughly awake now, Lucinda climbed out of bed and ventured down the hallway. The house was still quiet—she guessed Charlie must be asleep and Dad would be in the motel kitchen, doing the breakfast service. She filled the kettle, then flicked the switch so it'd be ready to make coffee after her shower.

When she emerged from the bathroom, there was a loud discussion happening in the kitchen.

‘What's going on?' She glanced from Madeleine to Charlie to Abigail. All dressed in exercise gear, Charlie looked serene but Madeleine and Abigail were drenched in sweat and Abigail looked like she'd seen a ghost.

‘Madeleine and Abigail went for a jog and had a run-in with that old gypsy lady who lives on the outskirts of town,' Charlie explained. ‘Remember Wacky Wanda?'

‘It was hardly a run-in.' Madeleine crossed the room to the kettle and poured Lucinda's boiling water into her mug. She tossed in a tea bag and stirred. ‘She just gave us an odd look and mumbled something unintelligible.'

Abigail ran her hands up and down her arms as if cold. ‘I was trying to be nice and she looked like she wanted to put a hex on me.'

Lucinda laughed. ‘You've listened to far too many schoolyard stories. I'm surprised that old hermit's still alive. She seemed ancient even when we were kids. And I'm sure she's not really a witch.'

‘She might be,' Charlie said, ‘but even if she is, real witches aren't like the one that poisoned Snow White, so I wouldn't stress about her. As Madeleine said, you frightened her.'

‘Yes, I'm sure her bark is worse than her bite,' exclaimed Madeleine, laughing.

‘Do you want me to make you a coffee?' Lucinda could tell Abigail was genuinely spooked. ‘I was about to make a plunger.'

‘Thanks.' Abigail smiled gratefully up at her.

Lucinda refilled the kettle.

‘Right … I'm going back to my meditation,' Charlie announced, before looking to Lucinda. ‘Do you still want to get stuck into Mum's things today?'

‘Yep. I think so. What say we all meet back here after lunch. I'm going to the supermarket to get supplies this morning. Anyone have any requests for Christmas cuisine?' Although they hadn't officially discussed it, Lucinda assumed that she'd be expected to play chef. Charlie would cook vegetarian food—which Dad abhorred—and Abigail and Madeleine were about as useful in the kitchen as a couple of blind wombats.

‘Nah, but I'll come with you,' Abigail volunteered. ‘It'll be good to get out. And this place needs some Froot Loops.'

Lucinda bit down on the impulse to tell her that Froot Loops were empty calories that would rot her teeth, and instead turned to make their coffee.

The three sisters came together in their parents' bedroom at precisely two o'clock. Abigail held up two packets of Tim Tams and a couple of bottles of Diet Coke (treats she'd bought on her shopping trip with Lucinda). Charlie brought carrot and celery sticks and a tub of hummus to the party. Madeleine had contemplated sneaking into the motel bar to steal a bottle of wine, but then thought maybe it was too early in the day. Lucinda brought a pile of empty boxes she'd picked up at the supermarket that morning.

To say their mum had been a hoarder would be a gross understatement, especially where her wardrobe was concerned. Without a doubt this was going to be a mammoth and emotionally draining task. No wonder Dad had palmed it off on them.

‘Where do we start?' Madeleine asked, looking to the others for direction.

‘Before we do, there's something else I want to talk to you all about.' Lucinda looked back to the door as if to check they were on their own, then she lowered her voice. ‘Last night I spoke to Mitch McDonald in the bar.'

‘You saw Mitch?' Charlie's eyes widened in surprise. ‘Why didn't you send him in to say hello?'

‘I did.' Lucinda looked apologetically to Charlie. ‘He said he wanted to let us catch up. I'm sure he'll make contact though; sorry I forgot to mention it.'

‘It's fine. What is it you wanted to say?'

‘Well,' Lucinda inhaled deeply. ‘The restaurant was almost empty and Mitch was the only customer in the bar, which struck me as odd considering how busy we used to get on a Friday night. He said he'd been keeping an eye on Dad and that he was a little concerned he wasn't coping.'

‘And you didn't think to tell us this last night?' Madeleine's jaw tightened.

‘I wanted us to have a nice dinner. And after talking to Mrs Sampson I also wanted to nose around the books and stuff today.'

‘And?' Madeleine didn't hide her annoyance. ‘What did Mrs Sampson say?' She herself had gone back to bed after the jog and spent the morning catching up on sleep.

‘She was a little cagey, but she admitted she's been shouldering a lot more of the motel responsibility since Mum died. She tried to tell me she didn't mind but I could see how exhausted she is. She hasn't had a day off in over a month. Apparently Dad got behind paying some of the staff wages and so a few of the casual cleaners and wait staff quit. Mrs Sampson and Rob have been doing the best they can but it's not fair on either of them.'

‘Poor Dad,' Abigail sniffed. ‘Maybe one of us should have stayed longer after the funeral.'

‘Right,' Madeleine nodded, unable to rein in her sarcastic tone. ‘And you would have given up your prestigious position in the London Symphony Orchestra to cook bacon and eggs for strangers?'

Abigail poked her tongue out but didn't say anything.

‘Anyway,' Lucinda said with emphasis that demanded attention, ‘this morning I told Mrs Sampson she needed to take a few days off over Christmas, maybe even go to Adelaide and spend it with her kids, and that from tomorrow until we leave we'll take on her duties.'

Madeleine raised her eyebrows. ‘What about our holiday?'

‘Oh for fuck's sake, Madeleine,' snapped Lucinda, cursing uncharacteristically, ‘stop being such a princess. Do you have a better solution? Do you even care about Dad? Or do you only care about yourself?'

Madeleine wanted to yell something caustic back but Lucinda's words hit hard. The truth was she wasn't so much annoyed about having to help but about Lucinda making this decision without consulting anyone else. Sometimes she thought her sister should have been born first; she certainly acted like she was in charge of everyone.

‘Look, let's not fight about this now. We can't change the past,' said Charlie, ever the peacekeeper. ‘But Lucinda's right. We can at least give Mrs Sampson a holiday and take the pressure off Dad while we're here.'