you didn’t want to know, Bronwyn.
If she hadn’t loved him, all of it would be easier now. But she’d loved him all right. Fallen for him hard since he was the antithesis to Patrick’s youthful romanticism. Ari was steady, responsible, so appreciative of her. She’d loved her life with him.
But now, how could she mourn a crook? Who would care that he was dead or that she missed any part of him? He’d left her so isolated. She hadn’t maintained one friendship separate from her life with him. Couples. They’d known other couples, Ari’s business associates. If these friends weren’t implicated in Ari’s fraud, they’d been hurt by association with him.
Yes, she’d needed to get out of Sydney, had even considered leaving the country, starting over where no one knew her, where no one would see her as a wife who’d turned a blind eye to her husband’s criminal activities.
Marie dragged the animal in question out of the kitchens. He was just a puppy and looked half-starved.
Louisa Fairchild said, “Looks like a dingo to me.”
Marie watched her employer with an apprehensive expression, then told the dog, “You stay out.”
The puppy, who was gray with black spots, sat down and scratched one oversize black ear.
“Part heeler,” Mrs. Lipton pronounced.
“Well, let’s get him out of here.”
“I can watch him and make sure he doesn’t go back inside.”
Bronwyn stared. It was Wesley who’d spoken. He had jumped up from the stone wall where he sat beside the baggage they’d lugged from the house. Today he wore his child-size Manchester United uniform, and it struck Bronwyn how small he was, how young, as he marched up to Louisa Fairchild. Bronwyn wanted to tell him to stop, to sit down again, but her mouth wouldn’t work.
The elderly woman gazed at him as though she’d never seen a child before. “Where did he come from?” she asked Mrs. Lipton.
Bronwyn stepped forward, her hand on her throat.
The estate manager gave her a reassuring smile. “He’s your son, isn’t he, Bronwyn?”
“Wesley,” Bronwyn supplied.
“Theodoros,” said Wesley, too softly to be heard by anyone but his mother, who considered infanticide.
He went over to the puppy and crouched down beside it, and the dog licked its lips, sticking out his tongue, lifting his head.
“All right, Wesley,” said Louisa Fairchild. “I’m Louisa. Your job is to keep that animal out of the kitchens. We’ll see if we can find him something to eat. Welcome, Bronwyn,” she finally said, and Bronwyn detected no sign of recognition in the other woman. “We’re glad to have you.”
As she hurried away, toward the big house, Bronwyn released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Louisa’s attitude put to rest both her greatest fears, that she would be identified as Ari’s widow and that Wesley would be in the way and unwelcome.
“Let’s go see where we’re going to be living, Wesley,” she told him. “I guess you better bring the dog. You can keep him outside, though.”
“There have been dogs in the employee quarters before,” Mrs. Lipton said. “In fact, there’s a Lab mix who considers himself part of the place. You’ll meet him. His name is Sergeant.”
Things were looking up, Wesley decided as his mother went off to her job. The puppy wasn’t his, but he would get to look after him, because the big boss had told him to. Wesley decided to call him Beckham, and he played with him outside the house where he and his mother were now going to live.
Halfway through the afternoon, a blond woman he’d seen the day before strolled back to the bungalow. She stopped beside the steps, where Wesley sat, bored from watching the dog. “I’m Marie,” she said. “Your mum already told me you’re called Wesley.”
“Yes.”
“So it looks like this is your dog now. He’s a nice little guy. What are you going to call him?”
Wesley told her.
She took in his soccer uniform and smiled. “Very appropriate. Well, let’s see if we can find Beckham a collar. If you take him over to the stables, you can ask Mike, the head groom, if he has something that will work.”
“Thank you,” Wesley said, keeping in mind that he had to be polite so that his mother didn’t lose her job.
Marie squinted at him. “You remind me of someone.”
“My dad always said I looked like my mum.”
He saw her face soften into a curious and sympathetic expression. “Are your parents divorced?”
“No, my dad died,” Wesley said. His mother had instructed him not to tell anyone who his father was. Still, he couldn’t help saying, “He was murdered.”
Marie exclaimed, “Oh, I’m so sorry. I had no idea, Wesley. You must miss him.”
Wesley nodded, glad that someone, at least, understood how he felt. Not that his mother didn’t understand.
Just before he went to sleep last night, she’d said, “I know you miss him, and I’m sorry, Wesley. I know it hurts. I’m really sorry.” But his mother was also preoccupied and worried, anxious about money. He liked this sympathetic stranger.
He patted Beckham, and the dog huddled against his legs.
Patrick didn’t see Bronwyn in the morning. He imagined she’d gone to her job interview. He hoped she wouldn’t be hired. He hadn’t slept well. In fact, he wasn’t sure he’d slept at all. Bronwyn was the reason. He didn’t need some woman scheming around him, and her intentions, whatever they were, couldn’t be good. It must be money she wanted, no matter what she said to the contrary. Nothing else made sense.
At the breakfast table, Louisa talked about An Indecent Proposal’s recent win at Warrego Downs and about Jacko Bullock’s upcoming campaign gala. She did not talk about the murder investigation or her relief that Dylan Hastings had finally found Sam Whittle-son’s true killer. Patrick knew his great-aunt had a gift for holding a grudge, but she held none against Dylan for suspecting her. After all, he’d helped save Fairchild Acres from a recent fire, and he loved Megan.
“Patrick, did you hear me?” she said.
“What?”
She barely suppressed a look of irritation. “If you’re not going to bother listening, I won’t bother talking.”
“I’m sorry. I was preoccupied.”
“I noticed.”
He found himself smiling, feeling terribly fond of her. “I was marveling over your attitude toward Dylan. You’ve certainly managed to forgive and forget.”
“Well—forgive, anyway,” she said tartly. “I’ve spent too much time harboring
