Page 42 of Masquerade

“Where did you go?” She couldn’t remember Niall telling this story.

“Newcastle. Mum’s still there. Dad was a jack of all trades. Hired himself out for land regeneration, made furniture and subbed on building developments.”

“Did he start your interest in the environment and sustainability.” Farm, land regeneration—Kate made the connections.

“Who said I was interested?” He dismissed his obvious interest, giving her a clue to his quiet mood since lunch. He’d been thinking of his parents, more particularly his father. His father had planted the seed of valuing the land, and it had flourished in this son.

Kate called him on it. “You’d have walked through fire for this job.”

He shrugged. “What about you? What started you on environmental research?”

I take the jobs offered. Her stock answer. She debated with herself for endless seconds while his question hung in the air, then she went with her gut. Maybe son-of-a-farmer Liam was a man she could afford to let closer.

“My parents are writers.” She dropped her first veil. “Ever heard ofThe Last Tree?”

“The Australian, Armageddon-type play about the end of the world.” He turned his head to study her. “The physical world is laid waste by greed and ignorance?”

“My father wrote that. We lived and breathed it while he was doing it. The research, the roller-coaster of anger, despair and utter helplessness.” She fastened her gaze on the clump of mature lilly pillys further down the valley.

“It’s tough to watch.” He’d seen her father’s play.

“Tougher to live through. I was thirteen. I remember burying myself under the blankets to escape his voice.” She pushed her hand through her hair, lifting it from her neck, then let it drop. “He often reads aloud to hear the rhythms of speech, to test the dialogue, to live the drama of the moment he’s creating.”

“Brian Ferguson’s your father?” He had to know her father’s history. Brian Ferguson’s womanising got a rerun every time a new play opened or an old play made a comeback.

She nodded, aware of his gaze, cocooned with him in a strange stillness.

“He’s written some pretty intense pieces of theatre.” Then he followed the other crumb she’d left on the trail. “You said both your parents were writers?”

“Rosamunde Turner. She writes literary fiction about the struggles of families. Intergenerational stuff where the sins of the grandfathers or grandmothers reach through the generations to blight the dreams of little Aneeka or Parvaiz even before they’ve had them.” Her mother was adamant in claiming independent success. Most people only remembered she was married to Brian Ferguson when they saw them together.

“You use her surname.” Curiosity and a hint of suspicion clouded his voice.

“They had an agreement.” She faced him, wanting to read the expression in his eyes. “If they had a girl they’d take Mum’s surname, a boy they’d take Dad’s. Two girls so we got Turner.”

“Any other little Turners or Fergusons?” He tucked his thumbs in his belt. Casually dressed, in dark jeans and moleskin shirt, this wasn’t a cross-examination, although he was seeking answers—or, as she let herself believe—common ground.

“No. Brian and Rosamunde agreed two children were enough for them to manage.” Kate smiled wryly. Two children were surplus to requirements during their period of creative differences.

“You don’t sound especially close?” His gentleness was a balm to her bruised spirit.

“I love them. Living with them wasn’t always easy.” She rarely criticised her parents. “But to answer your original question—they want me to write literary fiction. ‘In my genes’ they claim. I’m more lowbrow. So, research is my proxy.”

“Sounds like pressure.” He was acknowledging her discomfort and offering her the chance to spill more details.

“Sometimes.” She switched her gaze back to the valley. “In the beginning, I took on any research work I was offered. Then I discovered there was this.” She spread her arms to take in the view. “Beauty enough for all the senses. Maybe I can do something small to preserve it.”

“Wasn’t that your father’s aim with his play?” His whisper close to her ear shimmied through her. “To inspire others to action?”

“He said fear is a great motivator.” She scrunched up her nose. “But scaring people into doing the right thing tends to backfire. I’d prefer people to engage because they care.”

“An optimist.” The light breeze tumbled his hair over his forehead.

“A dreamer.” She hunched her shoulders, prepared for his scorn.

“You don’t see that as a compliment?” He turned her towards him.

“Dad doesn’t mean it as a compliment. I’m avoiding reality.” Yet Kate’s father had been blind to the damage his philandering had caused—to his family and the other women who’d loved him.

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