cheek twitched and she knew he was following the trail of her thoughts without any trouble. She felt herself burning up. Blushing. She! Forthright, tough as nails, unflappable she.
James stood, drawing Kane in front of him as a wall. Kane took the attention blindly, hugging on to his dad’s arms as he blinked ingenuously up at Siena.
‘Kane, how about you show Siena your new trampoline while I organise the lemonade?’
‘Sounds like a plan,’ she said, torn halfway between mortification for somehow upsetting her host and a more selfish gratitude that a tour of the upstairs bedrooms had gone by the wayside.
Kane tugged her hand again and they jogged together through the kitchen, leaving James setting some glasses and a plate of packet biscuits on to a tray.
‘First I’ll show you Dad’s shed,’ Kane said, taking her to a large rendered concrete outbuilding, which was a new addition to the beautifully manicured backyard. She barely had time to take in the elegant landscaping around their old kidney-shaped in-ground pool as Kane gave the shed’s heavy side door a big heave-ho.
And inside?
Inside was a cave of wonders.
Sunlight streamed in through high windows, collecting waves of flying wood dust as it settled upon sharp, clean, oil-soaked tools residing in neat rows along the far wall. A long oak work table was clear of debris and bric-a-brac but was coated with splotches of paint and notches from slipped tools. A sander and a set of clear plastic goggles lay strewn on the bench as though forgotten in the middle of a job. Chunks of wood and chopped tree trunks with the bark still attached lay in neat piles all along the left wall.
‘What does your dad do out here?’ Siena asked, her voice a little breathless.
‘He makes cabinets.’ Kane swished his hand like a model on a game show displaying white goods.
She ran her hand along the bench, the soft pads of her fingers tingling at the feel of the rough worn wood. When she reached the end of the bench she found something large hiding beneath a dusty old sheet. She barely hesitated before giving the cloth a tug.
A small gasp escaped her lips as it fell away to reveal the most beautiful piece of furniture she had ever seen.
It was a baby’s changing table—waist-high, with five drawers, resting on stubby little legs. The name Lachlan was carved in a heavy neat scrawl along the top drawer and pictures of teddy bears and rattles were carved randomly about the piece.
The detail and craftsmanship was spectacular. In amongst the thousand and one classes she had crammed into her days off, she had taken wood shop. She had lovingly created what she had thought to be a truly beautiful wooden ashtray, though nobody she knew smoked. It had taken days to carve the simple round shape, buff it to a polish and then carve her initials into the bottom.
But this was a whole other dimension. Each piece of wood was obviously chosen for its peculiar grain, with the graded waves of colour and knots working to form a beautiful inclusive whole.
It was exquisite. The work of someone with patience and imagination. Siena had thought James Dillon a simple labourer, but for once her first impression had been wrong. The man was a creator.
She looked over her shoulder and through the large window which gave an unimpeded view of the backyard and the rear of the two-storey house.
The man in question ambled past the kitchen window with the phone to his ear—calling for a tow truck? Calling for a cab to take her home?
Her heart slipped in her chest and she felt something akin to loss at the thought of leaving so soon. A hand fluttered to her ribs and she swallowed hard. That sensation was the most unexpected of all.
She stepped back, needing to distance herself from all of the unwelcome feelings tumbling inside her and she bumped into a small work desk in the corner. A battered, dust-covered laptop resting on the corner of the desk slipped and she turned and caught it before it fell.
She righted it upon its small metal desk and saw that it was loaded on to a simple black webpage with a neat cream font. She knew by the format that it was a web-based diary—a blog. She’d trawled online blogs often as many of her workmates used them to keep their families apprised of their adventures travelling.
This page was simply called ‘DINAH’ and the dates below the title told Siena it was dedicated to a woman who had died a little over twelve months before. Cold fingers of dread crept up the back of her neck.
Needing to know, to make sure that what she was thinking was true, she ran her finger over the mouse pad to shuffle down the webpage and she randomly chose an entry dated a few months before.
I’ve been feeling a little anxious over the past few days. I can’t put my finger on the reason why, but part of it involves Kane complaining off and on about not feeling well.
Siena looked over her shoulder. Kane was busy in the corner, babbling away about how he helped his dad every Saturday morning and his dad let him choose the sandpaper and that he made five dollars a day when he worked with him. But it soon became white noise as Siena ached to read more. To know more.
She licked her dry lips, her heart suddenly beating so hard she could hear it thrumming in her ears.
But wasn’t this like reading the guy’s diary? Well, no. By definition a blog was out there, on the World Wide Web for all and sundry to stumble upon and read.
Convinced enough, she read on.
Sometimes it is a stomach ache, sometimes a sore throat, sometimes a headache.
I know that this can be a symptom that his counsellors are looking for to say he needs more intensive therapy, but it’s winter and a lot of colds are still going around so maybe I am overreacting.
To tell you the truth, I think I know how he feels.
Having moved my business to my backyard after they convinced me it would be in Kane’s best interests, having cut down time spent with friends and colleagues so that Kane can have every ounce of attention I can give, I have come to a point where there are days when I don’t see the point in getting up early or showering, I don’t want to eat breakfast, much less make it for someone else, and the thought of going outside the front door leaves me in a cold sweat.
But then I think of that sad little face, of those big brown eyes, so like his mother’s, and of that one important day a year ago when he asked me ever so politely not go to work so far away again, and my love for him takes over.
For him I can and will do anything.
One step at a time.
Siena blinked.
Dinah. Dinah was the beautiful blonde with the bedroom eyes in the photograph on the piano. Dinah was Kane’s mother, the woman who had been given a whole house as a wedding gift. And she was gone.
‘Hey, do you want to see my swings? They’re way better than the ones you left behind.’
Siena spun around to find Kane standing at her back, staring at her with big brown eyes full of innocence. If she thought her heart was thrumming earlier she’d had no idea. She could feel it slamming against her chest. Her palms
