Free The Secrets We Keep by Nova Weetman Page A

gives me a sad sort of smile. ‘Raspberry or strawberry jam?’
    â€˜Just butter,’ I say, remembering how Mum liked her croissants. She never had jam. Not even when Dad and I ribbed her about it and told her she was missing out.
    â€˜I think I’ll just have butter, too.’ He turns on the grill.
    I examine the photo. The little girl doesn’t look like me. She looks like someone I don’t know, full of hope and wonder, leaning into her mum’s arms like they’re the safest place in the world.
    â€˜I went to the gardens and grabbed some plants,’ says Dad, taking out some plates. ‘Thought we could work on the courtyard together, while it’s still sunny.’
    â€˜Okay.’
    â€˜Maybe we’ll even meet a few of the other residents.’
    â€˜Great,’ I say, sounding like it’s anything but.
    â€˜And this afternoon I really want to go and take a look at our old house,’ says Dad quietly. ‘Maybe we can dig up some of my plants from the backyard and move them here. Before they all die.’
    I haven’t been back there. Not since the day after the fire. Not since I walked through the burnt-out frame looking for scraps of my life that had survived.
    â€˜You don’t have to come,’ he says gently, ‘if you don’t want to.’
    I shake my head. ‘I’ll come.’
    Dad slides a croissant onto a bright red plate and places it in front of me. I touch the flaky skin feeling the warmth from the inside. I tear it open and watch as the butter melts across each side. I haven’t eaten a croissant for months. It tastes just the same as the ones Mum used to buy after her early morning yoga class on Sundays.
    â€˜I bought three, so if you want another one …’
    I wonder if Dad bought one for Mum without even thinking about it. ‘I’m good. Thanks, Dad. You have it.’
    But he doesn’t seem to be eating anything at all. I watch him pick the edges.
    â€˜What plants did you get?’
    â€˜Natives mostly. Figured they’d survive better. There’s not much shelter and if we’re not allowed to water every day then natives are the way to go.’
    â€˜Did you get some of those special flowering ones?’
    â€˜Yeah. The flowers are yellow, though. Not that dusty pink.’
    I think I’m glad about that. I remember the dusty pink ones. They grew all over the rocky area that Dad built at the front of our house. Mum loved them and I used to pick them when I was younger. So I think yellow is definitely the better way to go now.
    â€˜You should go change into something other than Bridget’s pyjamas,’ says Dad, suddenly standing up and clearing away the rest of his uneaten croissant.
    â€˜I’ll meet you out there,’ I tell him.
    I slide the photo off the table and head to my room. As soon as I get there, I stick it back into my book, hoping that somehow I’ll forget it ever existed.

Chapter 13
    Gardening isn’t usually my thing, but today I’m enjoying having my hands in the dirt. I like how warm the dirt feels and how it crumbles. It’s not much of a courtyard, though. There’s a sad-looking lawn in the middle with garden beds around the outside and only one tree that’s struggling to survive. So I guess it’s lucky we’re here to fix it up.
    I’m responsible for preparing the plants for Dad by gently freeing them from their pots and tickling the roots the way Dad taught me. Then Dad plants them, patting them into the earth and moving onto the next already dug hole.
    I like that I don’t have to talk much when I’m gardening with Dad. The plants become the focus, instead of conversation. We work well as a team. It doesn’t take us long to plant three-dozen native seedlings. When we finish, Dad hands me the watering can and I lightly shower each plant.
    It certainly looks better than it did before we moved in. And