back to its former glory. I am going to need decent money to do it justice. That’s really my problem here. I would prefer to keep some of my interests invested to keep them working for me.’ I shrugged.
We both sat quiet, contemplative, and then I continued. ‘But Bea you should see it.’ And my voice warmed to the idea once again. ‘There’s something so wonderful about it. The garden reminds me of Enid Blyton’s Magic Far Away Tree. It has dreamlike qualities like an enchanted forest. I did know Mr Carmody was a landscape architect, although I can’t remember giving it much thought. He has left a wonderful legacy behind. That place is crying out to be filled with people. I’ve been giving thought to a few ideas, but the one that keeps coming to mind is a luxurious inner city B&B.’
I began to visualise, describing it to Bea as I went. ‘Imagine coming up that drive, and seeing the house for the first time; a mix of contemporary and antique furniture, and fabulous, luxurious comfort; peace and quiet guaranteed, but only minutes from the cafe precinct and city centre,’ my voice began to race, ‘stunning gardens with beautifully maintained flowerbeds; a kitchen garden; breakfast on the terrace with views of the river; and relaxation by the pool.’ And then I came back to reality. ‘However, I’ll have to do my figures. It might be one big dream. As I said earlier, this is going to cost serious money.’ Thoughtfully, I tapped my fingertips on my top lip.
Reclining in resplendent comfort, Bea draped an arm over the back of the chair. ‘Do you know anything at all about running a B&B darling?’
‘Nope, but I intend to learn. After all, I do know about running a business, and at the end of the day, it’s another business. Plus Mum…’ there was that Mum word I used whenever I was stressed or needed comfort. I roamed over to the French doors and looked out to the back garden. ‘Plus I have to work out what to do with my life.’ Neither of us said anything for a few moments, and then with my eyes still on the garden, I continued. ‘I really thought I would have been a mum by now.’
Shrugging, I turned and looked at Bea. She looked thoughtful. I watched her face. Rising from the chaise, she beckoned. ‘Come with me.’
Taking a green tasselled key from the drawer of a small French dresser, she unlocked the large storeroom next to her studio. Pushing the door open, her hand reached for the light switch as she gestured me in front of her.
‘What…?’ I was taken aback, my eyes blinking in disbelief. And then with mouth agape, I stared. It was an Aladdin’s Cave crammed full of French antiques. My eyes lit up as they scanned the tightly packed room, making out a Louis XV style console, half a dozen ornate mirrors, two commodes, a sideboard, a pair of wing back chairs, and what appeared to be a Napoleonic chandelier.
With a flourish of her hand, Bea gestured. ‘Some things of your father’s he thought you may want some day. Each of these treasured pieces he selected for you on my last trip to France.’ Her hand smoothed over the worn patina of an armoire, her face now alive with memories. ‘When I came home after… after that sad time…’ I knew she was referring to my father’s death, ‘… I mentioned that there were some antique pieces of his being shipped, for whenever you wanted them. And then when you moved into the warehouse I asked again. Remember?’
I did remember Bea asking, and I distinctly remembered Davis taking me aside, firmly stating that we didn’t want anything old, only new shiny modern stuff for us.
I glanced around once more. I had thought this room was full of art supplies and old canvases. My eyes settled on a console where atop it sat a pair of gilded candle holders, highly decorated and forming branches of flowers, next to them a clock in marble, gold and bronze.
‘Oh,’ I gasped. ‘Look at this gilding.’ My hand smoothed over the gold work on the clock.
‘I believe that’s called ormolu,’ Bea explained.
‘Oh,’ I repeated, too overwhelmed to talk.
Bea began to move the console forward and I obligingly helped. Wedged in behind were a pair of cast iron urns covered in an off white coating, showing a few rusty marks of the time. However, behind them was the piece I loved the most. A roll-top desk. Lovingly, I ran my hands over it. ‘Oh Mum, look.’
‘If I remember correctly that piece is circa 1780 Paris. It still has its original marble top.’
‘Mmmm,’ I answered, busy rolling up the top to reveal a large writing pad and eight smaller drawers inside. ‘Oh my goodness.’
‘Will this help?’ Bea asked.
I looked around the room. ‘What, for Mr Carmody’s house? Mum it would be magnificent… perfect… what can I say?’
‘Well I daresay your papa would be very pleased.’ And Bea’s face showed it. ‘Finally he has done something right.’
*
We adjourned upstairs to the living room, where I nestled into the corner of one of the cream damask sofas. Placing my feet upon a plump cushion, I enjoyed the fading sunlight sparkling through a giant crepe myrtle tree outside the front door. Every March, Bea would fill our home at Kangaroo Point with huge vases of the heliotrope coloured crepe myrtle blooms cut from the trees in our garden there.
I glanced around Bea’s living room. Filled with romantic talismans - painted crosses, wooden hearts, keys strung on the end of rosary beads, the words armour embroidered on one of the cushions – it was the perfect Bea room.
The quiet was punctuated by the squeals of children playing in neighbouring yards. I liked the sound of it. Across from me, Bea, her eyes alive with excitement, spoke more of Papa than she had in my entire life. Or maybe it was just that I was ready to hear.
‘Your papa had a law degree when he first started out working with the best auctioneers in Lille and Paris. At 24, he became the youngest dealer in Chinoiserie for the European Biennale. His first shop was in Chartres and was opened solely on weekends catering to the Parisians who would make sabbaticals to their stately country homes. Weekdays, he spent passionately scouring antique markets and sourcing irreplaceable pieces from some of France’s most expensive private homes.’ She smiled. ‘He was passionate, intelligent and hardworking. You’re much like him Peach. Perhaps you have more of him, than me.’
I smiled at her. ‘But what of the chateau?’
‘Yes, the chateau and your grandmother, Helene, the doyenne of the family.’ Her voice still held an edge of dislike, even after all of this time. ‘When your grandfather passed away, your papa’s older brother Philippe inherited the chateau.’
I narrowed my eyes in disbelief. ‘I didn’t know there was an older brother.’
‘Yes, but when your papa was in his late thirties, Philippe, along with his wife and young son, were killed in a car accident. Of course, as was the done thing, your papa went home to run the family chateau, although he never gave up his involvement and love of antiques.’
‘Did he want to return to the chateau?’
‘Hmmm… I’m not sure that he had a choice, however from what I understand it was not entirely bad, as he had been coming and going for many years and seeing someone in the next town. Plus I believe his mother thought it was time he settled down.’
I narrowed my eyes. ‘Helene didn’t like you, did she?’
‘No, not
