A Home Like Ours by Fiona Lowe (inspirational books for students .txt) 📗

structures or affecting traffic flow and we’re not a greedy corporation. We’re building a small and tasteful housing project to alleviate a social problem. It ties in perfectly with the historical use of the land.’

The women’s voices were now audible as they approached the pavilion and anxiety stirred Helen’s gut. She’d gone out on a limb trusting Bob and although most of her didn’t regret it, old habits die hard.

‘Don’t discuss the project with anyone until after it’s announced, okay?’

‘Not even with you?’

‘Not around flapping ears.’

‘Fair enough.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Your project’s as safe as houses.’

‘It’d better be.’ She turned and greeted the women. ‘I’ve got some strawberries. Anyone want to take some with them?’

CHAPTER

11

Tara checked the time, feeling her frustration escalating until she was tapping her fingers on the store’s information desk.

Leanne Gordon, pushing a trolley loaded with boxes of nails, paused on her way past. ‘What’s giving you frown lines now? I thought the police had been and said it was kids?’

‘They have and they did.’ The shop had been broken into again and this time the target was spray cans. Denny North had told them to expect another spate of street graffiti as if that hadn’t occurred to them. ‘Jon set up an appointment for me with Vivian Leppart, but she’s late and I’ve got another meeting.’

Leanne snorted. ‘You mean lunch?’

Leanne had worked for Hoopers for twenty-five years and what she didn’t know about the stock wasn’t worth knowing. But the usefulness of her vast knowledge was offset by an abrasive personality.

Tara forced herself to laugh, allowing Leanne to think she was going to lunch with the girls instead of a training session with Zac. Jon would have a pink fit if she rescheduled Vivian for a gym session, but if the deputy mayor didn’t arrive in two minutes, she’d risk his wrath.

‘Tara!’ Vivian’s high heels clacked on the concrete floor as she strode towards her. ‘How are things?’

‘Could be better. We got broken into again last night.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Surely the police have got some leads by now?’

‘Theories but no leads. And to add insult to injury, our insurance company’s insisting we install CCTV.’ She almost added, ‘The shire needs to light the car park,’ but stopped. There was a time and a place, and today Vivian was a valued customer, not a councillor.

Vivian handed her phone to Tara. ‘I need you to order these.’

Tara studied the photo. It wasn’t often she coveted things but these intricate sea green, glass Italian tiles put her own bathroom in the shade. ‘These are incredible.’

Vivian beamed. ‘Aren’t they? I saw them years ago in a gorgeous little hotel on the Amalfi Coast and I’ve been determined to have them ever since. Mind you, they’re not cheap. I’ve had to delay the renovation to save up for them.’

‘It will be so worth it.’

‘I can’t wait!’

‘You might have to,’ Leanne said drily. ‘Unless our Melbourne supplier has any in the back of his warehouse, they’ll be coming from Italy by ship.’

‘That would be worst case scenario,’ Tara said quickly, wishing Leanne had a clue about customer service. ‘Don’t worry, Vivian. We’ll contact every supplier in all the capitals before we order overseas.’

‘Thanks, Tara. I’ve spent the last five years scrimping and saving and putting up with that god-awful 1970s’ mission brown décor so I can do this extension properly. I’d hate for bathroom tiles to hold things up.’

Tara calculated the nice profit Hoopers Hardware, Timber and Steel had already made from Vivian’s determination to ‘do it properly’ and continued to stroke her ego. ‘You’ve worked hard. You deserve this.’

‘I do. Unlike the mayoress.’

It was no secret Vivian detested Sheree Rayson. Even if she hadn’t, the entire town was jealously agog at the mayor’s purchase of Ainslea Park, a stunning agistment property and riding school that came with a luxury home. The purchase had surprised everyone and Tara struggled to imagine the mayor, an overweight accountant, on a horse. But perhaps Ainslea Park was Sheree’s passion. Tara didn’t know either of the Raysons well enough to comment. But she did know the key to staying in business in a small town was to never badmouth one customer to another.

She smiled at Vivian. ‘With these tiles, not to mention the incredible view from your new balcony, Country Living will want to feature the house for sure.’

After a day of dealing with police and difficult customers, a fraught dinner with her tired and grumpy children and an argument with Jon, Tara was thankful it was book club night. She’d been glad of the excuse to escape Tingledale, even if it was for Monique’s overstuffed McMansion inside a gated golf community on the other side of the river.

Monique passed around glasses of Russian vodka mixed with cranberry and pineapple juice. When everyone had a glass, she held up her own. ‘Nostrovia. Good health.’

‘I’m pretty sure that means “let’s get drunk”, which is fine by me.’ Kelly took a large mouthful of her cocktail.

‘You can’t get drunk until we’ve discussed the book,’ Monique said firmly. ‘Here, eat a cherry pirozhki.’

‘You’ve really excelled yourself this time, Mon,’ Rhianna said. ‘Where’s the Fabergé egg?’

The women laughed and Tara joined in despite her complicated mix of emotions. But the silky slip of vodka was helping as it unfurled its fire inside her, stripping away the tension that was as much a part of her as her skin. She adjusted herself on the couch, fighting for space among the cushions. Who needed this many? Tara didn’t do cushions, and just as well, because this week they all would have been thrown at Jon’s head.

At least Rhianna was here and not using book group as an excuse to meet Jon. Then again, Jon had vehemently denied having an affair with her. It had occurred to Tara since then that ‘Are you having an affair with Rhianna?’ was a closed question. A question Jon could answer truthfully. It didn’t mean he wasn’t seeing someone else