Wedding at Wangaree Valley. Margaret Way

Philip Radcliffe had died at the wheel of his high- powered car. His companion on that fateful day had not been his wife, but a Sydney socialite.

      Simon’s widowed mother had not gone mad with grief. She had become as bitter as ever a scorned woman could, clinging tight to Simon, her only child, and smothering him in an unhealthy possessive love. Simon, who was very bright, like all the Radcliffes, had eventually gone off to university, where he’d thought himself safe from his mother’s excessive love—only to have to come home to Augusta Farm to a mother “terrified of being alone.” Though anyone who saw Rebecca Radcliffe throw up her narrow dark head, flash her black eyes and flare her thin nostrils would have been forgiven for thinking she wasn’t terrified of anyone or anything. It was the other way around.

      Armed with an economics degree, Simon had been taken into the family firm as a matter of course. He worked on the business side of Radcliffe Wine Estates, which was now producing very high-quality chardonnay and shiraz wines. The estate’s chardonnay was reaching near iconic standards. Everything Guy touched turned to gold. Another example of the rich getting richer, Alana thought. If only a bit of Guy’s Midas touch could land on her father!

      “It’s wonderful just to see the grapes grow,” Simon had once told her happily. “And Guy is the best boss in the world.”

      Of course he was! Guy was Simon’s hero and his role model. Sometimes it put her teeth on edge, the way Simon drooled. She knew it wasn’t fair of her. Guy had huge responsibilities. He took them in his stride. It was freely acknowledged that he was doing wonderful things for the Valley. Surely, then, he richly deserved everyone’s devotion? There was no getting away from it. Guy Radcliffe was the driving force in Valley life. He drew people to him, men and women alike. Not that it made her love him the more. He didn’t take any special notice of her either. Neither could she truthfully say she was invisible to him. There was something about the way he looked at her from time to time that caused moments of elation she tried hard not to show. Underneath, of course, she found Guy as impressive as everyone else. It was just that she felt compelled to keep it to herself.

      “How’s it going?” Simon called as he stepped out of his vehicle. As usual he had nosed it into his favourite parking spot in the shade of the lemon scented gums.

      “Getting there,” she answered, waiting for him to crunch across the gravel to join her.

      A beautiful stone fountain was the central feature of the driveway: three tiers, topped by a life-size bronze of a little boy. It was the work of a famous Australian sculptor—another treasure her mother had brought with her, along with the urns and stone statues that were dotted around the fairly extensive garden. These days the fountain never played.

      “I was about to get myself something to eat. Come and keep me company.”

      “Love to.” Simon showed his sweet, vulnerable smile. He had been a delicate and sensitive little boy, and sometimes it still showed. “Well, for a little while. I have to be getting back soon.”

      “How did you get off in the first place?”

      They mounted the short flight of front stairs.

      Simon took off his hat and threw it onto the seat of a white wicker armchair. “I had to do a job for Guy. I was on my way back, but I thought I’d stop in here first. You look great.”

      “You’re an awful fool!” she laughed. “I look terrible. I’m hot, sweating and starving.”

      “You still look great.” Simon thought one of the best things about Alana was that she either didn’t know or didn’t care that her natural beauty was startling. Alana was his life. He had been running to her for peace and comfort ever since he could remember. “Your dad around?” His eyes slipped beyond her into the spacious entrance hall, as though Alan Callaghan was about to make another one of his slightly terrifying appearances.

      “I guess he should be up by now,” Alana said, leading the way into the house. “Go into the kitchen while I check. You could start the coffee if you like.”

      “Will do.”

      Simon was as familiar with the Callaghan homestead as his own. He made his way through to the big farmhouse kitchen at the rear. It looked out onto the summerhouse where he and Alana had enjoyed endless after-school snacks prepared by her lovely mother. How he had wished he had a mother like that! The white lattice sides were covered in a very beautiful climbing rose, a creamy yellow with glossy dark green foliage, and a heavenly perfume wafted into the kitchen. He would always associate it with Annabel Callaghan. He missed her too. She had been such a radiant woman—beautiful, warm, welcoming. She and his own mother, Rebecca, could not have made a greater contrast.

      Alana found her father in his study. He was dressed in knee-length khaki shorts and a clean white singlet. His heavy brown-rimmed glasses were sliding down his nose as he made his way through a fresh pile of bills.

      “How are you, Dad?” Alana walked around the king-sized desk to give him a kiss.

      “Awful, if you must know,” he grunted, putting an arm around her waist and resting his head briefly against her shoulder.

      “Your own fault.” It was a mistake to give too much comfort.

      “I know, but it ain’t easy,” he commented dryly. “The wethers have to be drenched.”

      Alana slumped into a leather armchair. “Unless you can help me, it will have to wait until Kieran gets home.”

      “Of course I’ll help you,” he said, just a shade testily. In her whole life Alana had never heard a harsh word from her father. “If you’re up to it we’ll do it this afternoon.”

      “If I’m up to it? I like that!”

      “Okay, okay—I know you’re a good, brave girl. The very best.” He broke off as emotion threatened to overcome him.

      “My heart bleeds for you, Dad,” she said, very gently. After all, she didn’t know what it was to love someone like her father had loved and continued to love her mother. Passion between a man and woman was a different kind of love. She hadn’t experienced it as yet, and maybe she never would. Not everyone found a soul mate at will.

      Alan gave himself a little mental shake. “I’m not quite the weak blubbing fool I must appear, but your mother was my shining star. She was there for me. In the morning she was there. When I came back at night she was there. Always shining. I still don’t know what she ever saw in me, the descendant of a wicked Irish convict.”

      “Who was transported for the term of his natural life to Australia because he’d poached a couple of rabbits to feed his starving family,” Alana said darkly. “And who by the way went on to become a well-respected pastoralist.”

      Her father allowed himself a smile. “Be that as it may, my Belle could have had any man in the Valley and way beyond. She could have had David Radcliffe.”

      For a stunned moment Alana thought she hadn’t heard right. She started up in her chair, her expression aghast. “What?” She couldn’t control her rising tone. “Guy’s father?”

      “The very one—God rest his soul!” Alan Callaghan, hands locked behind his head, rested back in his chair, staring up at the pressed metal ceiling.

      “B-b-but—” Alana found herself stuttering now. “I’ve never heard a word of this.” In itself this was absolutely extraordinary. “Not one word, not from anyone in the Valley—and everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

      “Obviously they don’t know it all.” Her father’s tone rasped as he took in her stunned expression. “It wasn’t common gossip. Neither your mother nor I ever spoke about it during our marriage. I’m sure the Radcliffes didn’t either—especially after David married Sidonie Bayley a few months after we married. The rebound, of course. And she’s a snob like the rest of them.”