The Second Promise. Joan Kilby

burger and fixed her with his shrewd gaze. “Perhaps it’s you who miss having your place to yourself.”

      Suddenly, she couldn’t tell him. Couldn’t inflict another loss on her father. “Of course not,” she said, laughing to prove the foolishness of such an idea. “It’s great having you here.”

      He smiled tentatively. “Who else would you get to cook for you, eh?”

      After dinner Art took himself off to the front veranda for his one smoke of the day. Maeve propped the green envelope on the windowsill in front of the sink, and ran hot water to build up a soapy froth. What did Graham want after all these years? The return address was care of the yacht harbor in Sydney, so she assumed he still had his sailboat.

      After she’d stacked the last clean plate in the dish rack, she swept the floor and tidied the pantry. Then she sat at the table and attended to her bills, her checkbook at hand. At last, there was nothing for it but to read Graham’s letter. With trembling fingers she tore open the envelope:

      Dear Maeve, I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately. I’m sailing for Fiji at the end of March. Before I go, I want to see you again. I’ll be in Mornington sometime in the next few weeks. Will call when I get in. Graham. P.S. Remember how we used to make love at sea under the stars?

      Maeve’s hands dropped to her lap and the letter slipped through her motionless fingers to the floor. For a moment she did remember. Was there a part of her that still loved Graham? They’d had some good times before Kristy died. Some bad times, too, but that was part of marriage. If he was backtracking all this way just to see her, he must still care.

      Did she?

      WILL ARRIVED HOME from work late on Thursday evening to find Maeve’s ute in his driveway and Maeve sitting on the tailgate. Every red blood cell in his body went on alert. She’d cast off her shirt, and the scant black crop top left an expanse of taut brown skin above her cargo pants. Her dark hair was pulled into a long ponytail, which hung over her shoulder. In one hand she held a half-empty bottle of water and in the other a wide-brimmed hat, with which she fanned herself.

      “I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” he said, emerging from the Merc. “The production line broke down just as I was leaving, and I stayed until it was fixed.”

      She hopped from the tailgate and brushed off the back of her pants. “It’s okay. I mowed the lawn while I waited.”

      “Such enterprise.” Will opened his front door. “Come in. We’ll get a cold drink and you can grill me.”

      Maeve kicked off her boots and stepped past him into the entry hall. He watched her gaze lift to the overhead skylight, then sweep up the curved staircase to the landing. There, round windows like portholes let in more light. Finally she peeked sideways to the lounge room, which glowed warmly in shades of cream, yellow and terra-cotta.

      “I love your house,” she said, turning to him with a surprised smile. “I didn’t take it all in the last time I was here. It’s perfect.”

      “Thanks.” The house was light and bright, reflecting the sun and the sea, with hardly a straight line or a sharp angle in the place. After he and Maree had split, he’d needed a place where he could feel positive about the future. A home he could grow into.

      But as he led the way down the hall to the kitchen, Maeve amended her verdict. “Almost perfect. So far I haven’t seen a single plant.”

      He glanced over his shoulder to see her eyes sparkling. “And you won’t. I always forget to water them, so now I don’t bother trying to grow any.” He opened a bar fridge in the family room, displaying a dozen types of specialty beer, plus several bottles of white wine and different types of water. “What’ll you have?”

      “Something nonalcoholic with ice, thanks.”

      Will made her a tonic and lime juice, then chose a Red Dog lager for himself, and they sat at the patio table. Maeve flipped her clipboard open and proceeded to question him on everything from his favorite color to his astrological sign. Her dark-brown eyes studied him with such intense concentration, she might have been trying to read the convolutions of his brain.

      And when she bent her head to note his answers with green-stained fingers, Will studied her. Although she wore no makeup, her tanned skin was smooth and her vivid coloring a collection of contrasts: dark hair, white teeth, deep-red lips. Her mouth was wide and full, curling at the corners in a cupid’s bow. Her large eyes full of laughter a few minutes ago, were now serious.

      “Do you have any siblings?” She brushed back a strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek, drawing his attention to the translucent moonstones that studded her lobes.

      After a moment of silence she glanced up expectantly, and he realized he’d forgotten the question.

      “Siblings,” she repeated.

      “Two sisters and a brother.”

      Her gaze remained fixed on his. “What number child are you?”

      “I’m the eldest.”

      “Star sign?”

      “Capricorn.”

      She frowned down at her clipboard, muttering, “Capricorn and Libra—bad mix.”

      “Who’s a Libran?”

      She didn’t answer, and he smiled to see a blush creep into her cheeks. “Do you believe in astrology?” he asked.

      “Not really.” Her gaze sharpened. “I mean, yes.”

      Will drank from his beer. “‘Our fate lies not in the stars, but in ourselves.’ Or words to that effect. I feel I know you already, through your father.”

      “Oh?” She put down her pen and eyed him warily.

      “For instance, I know you like pancakes topped with fresh fruit for breakfast on Sunday morning. And that you use rainwater to wash your hair.” His fingers flexed as he found himself wondering if her hair was as smooth and soft as it appeared.

      “What else did he say about me?”

      Will racked his brain, and couldn’t think of anything she might object to. “Nothing personal. No deep dark secrets.”

      Maeve appeared relieved, and his fascination with her grew. But this session was about him, and she hadn’t forgotten that. “So,” she said, going back to her clipboard, “who was next—your brother or a sister?”

      “My sister Julie. But why? What does my childhood have to do with this garden?”

      “You never know,” she replied, writing down his answer.

      He leaned forward, trying unsuccessfully to read her handwriting upside down. “Are you licensed to practice psychiatry in this state?”

      Her mouth twitched, but she ignored his question and went on. “Did you grow up in the city or the country?”

      “I grew up here on the peninsula on a small mixed farm. When I was ten, we moved into the town of Mornington.” Will shifted in his chair, crossed one leg over his knee. “What about your family? Art mentioned he has a son overseas.”

      “My brother, Bill, lives in New Mexico. He’s an astronomer.”

      “Is he searching the galaxy for extraterrestrial life forms?” Will joked.

      “Yes,” Maeve answered seriously. “Now, when you were on the farm you must have played outside a lot. Do you remember the feelings you associate with being outdoors at an early age?”

      He was about to make a flippant remark, when he stopped and thought twice. Perhaps the smell of the freshly mown grass called forth memories, or maybe it was Maeve’s gentle prodding, but suddenly the past came back in a flash of vivid imagery. That time in his life before his father died. Before he’d had to grow up too quickly.

      “Freedom,” he said at last. “I could go