Free Her Great Expectations by Joan Kilby Page A

missed the quiet satisfaction of a safe landing and a hot cup of coffee afterward. Keeping the ultralight in the shed was a peculiar form of self-torture. Flying had once been his greatest joy.
    “I’ve got my hands full with this and that.” He turned the lawn mower over and wiped it down with a rag. Glancing up, he saw Steve wince and hold his stomach. “What’s wrong? Are you sick?”
    Steve grimaced again. “I think the meat pie I had for dinner last night was a bit dodgy.”
    “Jeez, Dad, what are you doing eating meat pies that have gone off? Come over to my place for dinner.”
    “Your meals are too spicy for my poor stomach.” He lumbered over to the couch and sat down heavily.
    “So I’ll make you roast lamb. When’s Mum coming home?”
    “Dunno,” Steve said with a gloomy scowl. “I thought when we retired we’d travel around the country together. But no, she’d rather go on an inner journey by herself.”
    “She’s found something that makes her happy.” Jack defended his mother. Even so, he felt sorry for his father, who’d been left behind.
    “We should never have sold the farm,” Steve complained, rubbing a hand across his thigh. “She wouldn’t have gotten all enlightened and I would have chores to do.”
    Jack set about reattaching the handle to the base of the lawn mower. “You should make some friends in Summerside,” he said, fitting a bolt. “Join the lawn bowling club.”
    “You sound like the doctor,” Steve grumbled. “Killing time, I call those sorts of activities. Give me something worth doing and I’d do it.”
    A twinge of guilt made Jack turn the wrench too hard. He swore as he stripped the bolt. “Your house doesn’t keep you busy?”
    “I’ve fixed every bloody thing that needs fixing, some twice.”
    Jack worked in silence a moment. He hated to admit it, but Sienna was right—his dad needed something. “Do you remember that wooden rocking horse you made for me when I was small? And the dollhouses you built for Lexie and Renita?”
    “’Course.” Steve helped himself to another cinnamon bun.
    “That sugary stuff will kill you,” Jack warned.
    “Once in a while doesn’t hurt.” Steve licked the icing off his fingers.
    “You still got the patterns?”
    “They must be somewhere in the boxes I stored in the garage,” Steve said. “Why?”
    “Just thinking. Would you go to a Men’s Shed if one was available?”
    “Have you been talking to that doctor, Sienna?” Agitated, Steve put down his half-eaten sweet roll, crumbs spilling over the plate onto the table. “What is she saying about me?”
    “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. She asked me to run a Men’s Shed. I said no.”
    “Oh.” Steve settled down and reached for the bun again.
    Jack stroked his jaw, noting his father’s flat expression and mindless chewing. “But I’m considering it.”

    S IENNA BACKHANDED the perspiration from her forehead as she jogged along the cliff-top road overlooking the bay. The sun was setting over the water, turning the horizon scarlet and glinting off the towers of Melbourne in the distance. Dog walkers and cyclists shared the quiet street lined on the beach side with a narrow park and the other side with large homes on leafy lots.
    As a doctor she liked to practice what she preached—that the cornerstone of a healthy life was physical exercise. She wasn’t fast but she was disciplined. Rain or shine she ran three miles every second day.
    Footsteps thudded on the pavement behind her and she moved over to allow the runner to pass.
    Instead the steps slowed. “Sienna.”
    “Jack!” When he fell into pace beside her she forgot everything in frank admiration of his muscular legs, ripped biceps and broad shoulders, gleaming with perspiration.
    “This is a coincidence,” she said to hide her confusion. “Running into each other out here.”
    “No coincidence. I called your house,” he said. “Oliver told me where you run.”
    Sienna slowed her