Free Thornwood House by Anna Romer

was lost for words. How to explain the tangled nest of lies and broken promises that had constituted my years with Tony? How to describe an obsession that was fuelled more by loneliness than by true affection? How to admit to a stranger that I had once made a mistake, and that my fear of being alone had made me keep making it . . . and that the one good thing to come of it was my daughter?
    Corey saved me the trouble. ‘No one’s lived at Thornwood for twenty-five years,’ she shouted over the Cessna’s grumbling drone. She wriggled in her seat, made fractional adjustments to a dial on the instrument panel, then shot a curious look in my direction. ‘I expect you had quite a mess to clean up before you moved in?’
    I eased my throttlehold from the neck of the telephoto lens. ‘Well, the dust and cobwebs had gone berserk, and a few of the old windowpanes were broken, but otherwise the house was in surprisingly good nick. It took a few weeks of dusting and mopping and polishing but it’s lovely now. I could use the services of a handyman around the place, though . . . No one I’ve called so far can spare the time. I don’t suppose you know anyone – ?’
    Corey was already patting her pockets. With a magician’s flourish she produced a dog-eared business card.
    ‘Hobart Miller,’ I read. ‘Farm maintenance, tree lopping, general repairs, no job too small.’
    ‘I can recommend him personally,’ Corey called over the noise. ‘He’s trustworthy, punctual, and does a thorough job. He’s not a glazier, but knowing old Hobe he’ll insist on fixing your windows himself . . . and anything else you might want doing. He cuts grass, traps possums, builds the sturdiest chook pens this side of the black stump. Last year one of my gum trees split down the middle after a storm – Hobe drilled a coach bolt through the divide and winched the trunk back together. You can’t even see the bolt now, the bark grew back over it. He’s atreasure. I’ll give him advance warning if you like, I’m seeing him this afternoon.’
    ‘He’s a friend of yours?’
    ‘You might say that. He’s lived in Magpie Creek forever. An eccentric old fella, but don’t let his scruffy appearance put you off. He’s smart, knows everything there is to know about anything. A walking encyclopaedia, Dad calls him.’
    That got my attention. ‘I wonder how much he knows about Thornwood?’
    ‘Probably its entire history, right down to the type of timber used in the house construction.’
    I tucked the card into my pocket, thoughtful. ‘Corey, how did you know Tony?’
    She looked wary. ‘We grew up together – we used to hang out after school, muck about on holidays, that sort of thing.’
    ‘Did you see him before he died?’
    ‘No –’ She looked across at me. ‘Gosh, Audrey, losing him must have been dreadful for you . . . It was bad enough for me, and I hadn’t seen him since we were kids.’
    ‘It was a shock. Tony and I were together for eight years. Then he married someone else . . . but we have a daughter, Bronwyn. She’s only eleven, his death hit her pretty hard.’
    Corey did a double-take, her freckles dancing like golden tealeaves on her tanned skin. ‘Poor kid,’ she said. ‘She must be devastated.’
    ‘She misses him,’ I agreed. ‘She was six when Tony left, but they stayed close. Every Sunday they went on outings together, and he always made a fuss over birthdays and Christmas. He was a great dad. Until recently,’ I amended.
    Corey raised a brow. ‘Oh?’
    ‘About nine months ago he went cold. Started phoning to cancel outings, or just not showing up, that sort of thing. I got the impression he was avoiding Bronwyn.’
    ‘Did he ever say why?’
    ‘That’s the sad part. Every time I confronted him about it, he shut me out. Refused to listen. Just carried on talking over me, as if he hadn’t heard. Bronwyn put on a brave face, but I knew she was hurt.’
    Corey muttered something that