It had been a long time since anyone had called him that—since his mother had died early in his life. His father had called him exclusively by his given name growing up, his school teachers by his surname, and his staff tended towards ‘sir’. Just hearing the phrase ‘son’ brought a certain familiarity to the discussion. If anyone else had asked him how he was getting on, he would have moved the conversation quickly on.
But discovering a body together had a way of forging a bond between strangers. The genuine question deserved a genuine answer.
‘I’m … getting by.’
‘How are you finding being in his house?’
‘It’s fine.’ And, surprisingly, it was, despite everything. ‘It’s been so long since I lived there with him; it’s not like the walls are infused with his spirit, you know?’
Alan nodded.
‘Unlike his tobacco,’ Grant said. ‘Twenty years didn’t change that habit.’ The memories of his distinctive brand made it too hard to sleep. ‘I had to repaint the whole place to get rid of the smell.’
A dark shadow crossed the mayor’s face before he masked it.
Grant moved the conversation on. ‘What else did you want to tell me?’
Alan caught the eye of the teenage waitress and interrupted her nail-varnishing session at a far table to indicate it was time for the bill. ‘Not tell, so much as ask,’ Alan hedged.
Grant waited but nothing further came. ‘Shoot.’
‘I know you don’t have a lot of connection to Castleridge these days.’
Not a lot, no. But he’d been floored by the number of people who had attended Leo’s funeral, and the amount of prepared dinners that had graced Leo’s freezer when he died. The locals were still looking after their own. ‘I grew up here, remember? There’s still a lot of familiar faces.’
‘Well … that’s good. Makes what I’m about to say that bit easier.’
Grant frowned. ‘Just say it.’
‘It’s about the research team …’
He snorted. ‘If you can call a bunch of science types counting seals research.’
Alan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Leo had reservations for a long time before deciding to work with them.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘It took him a year of discussions before finally relenting to—’
‘I’ve met Kate Dickson. I can well see what he relented to.’
Alan’s weathered face creased. ‘Kate came to see you?’
‘Last week.’
‘How did she seem?’
Seem? Too beautiful for a scientist. Too young to have shadows beneath her eyes. ‘She seemed hell-bent on getting her way.’
‘Yes. That would be Kate. She wouldn’t let her sorrow detract from the work she’s doing.’
Grant tightened his jaw. He had thought he had an ally in Alan Sefton but the man was every bit as smitten with Ms Dickson as his father had apparently been. ‘The only thing she was sad about was me shutting down her access.’
‘Ah.’ Alan nodded. ‘I wondered what your choice would be.’
‘There is no choice. Introducing the buffer zone will cut the farm’s profitable land by a third, and its valuable coast-access completely. I have no interest in helping the people who tore my father’s farm out from under him.’
Alan’s clear blue eyes held his. ‘Oh, now you care about the farm?
Grant had spent too many years across negotiating tables in the corporate world to let his shock show. Instead, he swallowed back the shaft of pain and fixed Alan with his hardest stare.
The older man glanced away first. ‘I’m sorry. That was unnecessary. But I’ll ask you to remember that twenty years of your father’s life may have passed for you, but I lived them. Here with Leo. Listening to his stories. His dreams.’
The lost dream of passing Tulloquay on to his son. A son with passion and aptitude for running stock. A son made of different stuff from the one fate had served him with. ‘Life wasn’t always his to dream with,’ Grant said simply.
‘True enough. But he made his choice freely when he decided to support the university’s program.’
Grant snorted. ‘Right. No-one wore him down …’
The older man flushed slightly. ‘I won’t apologise for the stance I took,’ Alan said, straightening and reaching for his wallet.
What? ‘You took?’
‘Your father has always been slow to change but, like this land, he responded best to consistent, evenly applied pressure.’
He leaned forward. ‘You support the conservationists?’
Alan tipped his head. ‘I support Castleridge and the people in it. This program comes with significant grant-monies. And, if it helps us to understand our fisheries better and protects our tourism, everyone wins.’
Are you serious? ‘Uh, except the McMurtries. We lose a third of our land.’
Alan pursed his lips. ‘To grazing, yes. But it opens up all kinds of possibilities for eco-tourism.’
Grant couldn’t help the sound that shot out of him. It was a cracking impersonation of one of Kate Dickson’s fur seals. Every disparaging thing his father had ever said about the landholdings in the district opening up to eco-tourism flashed through his mind. ‘My father would have died before letting a single tourist step foot on his property.’
And maybe he had.
Alan stared at him sombrely. ‘When was the last time you recall Leo McMurtrie doing something just because someone else wanted him to?’
Grant stared. He’d tried—and failed—his whole young life to get his father to budge once he’d set his mind on something. Maybe he’d just had the wrong tools. ‘I have a theory.’
Alan Sefton’s face said ‘enlighten me’.
‘Have you met Kate Dickson?’
The older man ignored his sarcasm. ‘Yes. Several times. Lovely girl. A little closed-in about her work …’
That threw him briefly. ‘“Closed in” how?’
‘Oh …’ Alan waved a careless hand ‘I just got the feeling that she doesn’t have a lot else going on in her life. You know—family. Children.’
Grant snorted again. He was becoming an honorary member of the Atlas colony. ‘I imagine Ms Dickson would take issue with
