Page 35 of Trusting the Fall
Apparently.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Parlour Tricks Beauty - Off Limits
Hi Claire,
Westley has had to take some personal leave, so I’m looking after your project in his absence.
Please be aware the floorboards in the salon have been laid and the lime wash stain has been poured.
Absolutely no inside entry to the salon is permitted for the next seven days while the stain cures.
Thanks,
Lee
16
Thecomfortofwalkinginto your childhood home, filled with familiar aromas, is an unbeatable kind of peace.
I walk through the side gate of my parents’ house. The open windows of the kitchen beside me emanate waves of fresh homemade bread, making my stomach growl for my mother’s cooking.
As I round the corner, I see her crouched in her garden. Her blonde hair is wrapped up in a scarf, and her tanned arms, exposed from countless hours in the sun, continue to fuss over her vegetables.
“Hey, Mama.”
She stops her finicking to look up at me with a warm smile, dusting her hands on her loose overalls as she stands and crosses to me. I bend down to her so she can place a kiss on my cheek.
“Hello, love.” My mother has lived in Australia for nearly thirty years, but her words are still thick with the rasping melody of her Swedish accent.
“What are you working on?”
“Zucchinis. Corn. Tomatoes.” She points to each garden bed as she rattles off names. “And your father installed my new climb structure just in time for passionfruit.”
She’s content in her garden, and it shows every time she has her hands buried in the soil. She looks back at me with a smile, but it falters as she seems to assess my face.
“You look tired, love. Are you working too hard?” she asks.
She dips down to pick up her bucket of gardening supplies.
We walk together toward the back door of the house and stop when she sorts her tools into the organised shelves under the window.
“No more than normal, Mama.”
She strips off her gloves, giving them a good whack against her leg before hanging them on a hook beside the door.
She turns back, placing her warm hand against my cheek, and hums. “Something’s changed.”
I’m saved from answering when my stomach lets off a rumble, making her laugh. “Let’s get you fed.”
I follow her inside, the smell of bread now mixed with the patchouli incense my mother has burned since before I was born.
Various dried herbs hang along the wall above the stove. A plucking guitar track plays softly on a radio perched on the overhead cabinets.
I don’t think a single thing has changed in this house in all the years my parents have lived here. I trip on the woven rug, as usual, and fall into a chair. My mother looks over with a soft smile, unsurprised by the fumble.
